THE  STORY 

OF  MY  BOYHOOD 

AND  YOUTH 


BY 


John  Muir 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  SKETCHES 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(Cbc  fitocrsibe  $re#  Cambribge 

1913     :   •>  ; 


*' 


COPYRIGHT,   Ipia  AND   1913,   BY  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,   1913,   BY  JOHN  MUIR 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  March  IQIJ 


•  *•• 


Contents 


I.    A  BOYHOOD  IN  SCOTLAND   .      .      .      .      i 

Earliest  Recollections  —  The  "Dandy  Doctor" 
Terror  —  Deeds  of  Daring  —  The  Savagery  of 
Boys  —  School  and  Fighting  —  Birds'-nesting. 

II.    A  NEW  WORLD 51 

Stories  of  America  —  Glorious  News  —  Cross- 
ing the  Atlantic  —  The  New  Home  —  A  Baptism 
in  Nature  —  New  Birds  —  The  Adventures  of 
Watch  —  Scotch  Correction  —  Marauding  In- 
dians. 

III.  LIFE  ON  A  WISCONSIN  FARM    ...    90 

Humanity  in  Oxen  —  Jack,  the  Pony  —  Learn- 
ing to  Ride  —  Nob  and  Nell  —  Snakes  —  Mosqui- 
toes and  their  Kin —  Fish  and  Fishing  —  Consid- 
ering the  Lilies  —  Learning  to  Swim — A  Narrow 
Escape  from  Drowning  and  a  Victory  — Accidents 
to  Animals. 

IV.  A  PARADISE  OF  BIRDS 137 

Bird  Favorites  —  The  Prairie  Chickens  — 
Water-Fowl  —  A  Loon  on  the  Defensive  —  Pas- 
senger Pigeons. 

V.    YOUNG  HUNTERS 168 

American  Head-Hunters  —  Deer  —  A  Resur- 
rected Woodpecker  —  Muskrats  —  Foxes  and 
Badgers  —  A  Pet  Coon  —  Bathing  —  Squirrels 
—  Gophers  —  A  Burglarious  Shrike. 

[v] 


260041 


Contents 

VI.    THE  PLOUGHBOY      ....      .      .  199 

The  Crops  —  Doing  Chores  —  The  Sights  and 
Sounds  of  Winter  —  Road-making  —  The  Spirit- 
rapping  Craze — Tuberculosis  among  the  Settlers 

—  A  Cruel  Brother  — The  Rights  of  the  Indians 

—  Put  to  the  Plough  at  the  Age  of  Twelve  —  In 
the  Harvest-Field  —  Over-Industry  among  the 
Settlers  — Running  the  Breaking-Plough  —  Dig- 
ging a  Well  —  Choke-Damp  —  Lining  Bees. 

VII.    KNOWLEDGE  AND  INVENTIONS    .      .  240 

Hungry  for  Knowledge  —  Borrowing  Books 

—  Paternal  Opposition — Snatched  Moments — 
Early  Rising  proves  a  Way  out  of  Difficulties 

—  The    Cellar    Workshop  —  Inventions  —  An 
Early-Rising  Machine — Novel  Clocks — Hygro- 
meters, etc.  —  A  Neighbor's  Advice. 

VIII.    THE  WORLD   AND   THE   UNIVERSITY  262 

Leaving  Home  —  Creating  a  Sensation  in 
Pardeeville  —  A  Ride  on  a  Locomotive  —  At 
the  State  Fair  in  Madison  —  Employment  in  a 
Machine-Shop  at  Prairie  du  Chieh  —  Back  to 
Madison  —  Entering  the  University  —  Teach- 
ing School  —  First  Lesson  in  Botany  —  More 
Inventions  —  The  University  of  the  Wilderness. 

INDEX   ,  .....  289 


Illustrations 


JOHN  MUIR  (PHOTOGRAVURE)    .      .      .  Frontispiece 
From  a  photograph  copyrighted  by  J.  Edward  B. 
Greene. 

MUIR'S  LAKE  (FOUNTAIN  LAKE)  AND  THE  GAR- 
DEN MEADOW 62 

OUR  FIRST  WISCONSIN  HOME 100 

CLOCK  WITH  HAND  RISING  AND  SETTING  WITH  THE 
SUN,  INVENTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR  IN  HIS  BoY- 

HOOD 132 

BAROMETER  INVENTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR  IN  HIS 
BOYHOOD 164 

COMBINED  THERMOMETER,  HYGROMETER,  BARO- 
METER, AND  PYROMETER,  INVENTED  BY  THE 
AUTHOR  IN  HIS  BOYHOOD 196 

THE  HICKORY  HILL  HOUSE,  BUILT  IN  1857   .      .  230 

THERMOMETER  INVENTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR  IN 
HIS  BOYHOOD 258 

SELF-SETTING  SAWMILL.  MODEL  BUILT  IN  CEL- 
LAR. INVENTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR  IN  HIS  BOY- 
HOOD   258 

MY  DESK,  MADE  AND  USED  AT  THE  WISCONSIN 
STATE  UNIVERSITY 284 


The  Story  of 
My  Boyhood  and  TTouth 

i 

A   BOYHOOD   IN  SCOTLAND 

Earliest  Recollections  —  The  "Dandy  Doctor"  Terror  — 
Deeds  of  Daring  —  The  Savagery  of  Boys  —  School  and 
Fighting  —  Birds'-nesting. 

WHEN  I  was  a  boy  in  Scotland  I  was 
fond  of  everything  that  was  wild, 
and  all  my  life  I've  been  growing 
fonder  and  fonder  of  wild  places  and  wild 
creatures.  Fortunately  around  my  native  town 
of  Dunbar,  by  the  stormy  North  Sea,  there  was 
no  lack  of  wildness,  though  most  of  the  land  lay 
in  smooth  cultivation.  With  red-blooded  play- 
mates, wild  as  myself,  I  loved  to  wander  in 
the  fields  to  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  along  the 
seashore  to  gaze  and  wonder  at  the  shells  and 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

seaweeds,  eels  and  crabs  in  the  pools  among  the 
rocks  when  the  tide  was  low;  and  best  of  all 
to  watch  the  waves  in  awful  storms  thundering 
on  the  black  headlands  and  craggy  ruins  of  the 
old  Dunbar  Castle  when  the  sea  and  the  sky, 
the  waves  and  the  clouds,  were  mingled  to- 
gether as  one.  We  never  thought  of  playing 
truant,  but  after  I  was  five  or  six  years  old  I 
ran  away  to  the  seashore  or  the  fields  almost 
every  Saturday,  and  every  day  in  the  school 
vacations  except  Sundays,  though  solemnly 
warned  that  I  must  play  at  home  in  the  garden 
and  back  yard,  lest  I  should  learn  to  think  bad 
thoughts  and  say  bad  words.  All  in  vain.  In 
spite  of  the  sure  sore  punishments  that  followed 
like  shadows,  the  natural  inherited  wildness  in 
our  blood  ran  true  on  its  glorious  course  as 
invincible  and  unstoppable  as  stars. 

My  earliest  recollections  of  the  country  were 
gained  on  short  walks  with  my  grandfather 
when  I  was  perhaps  not  over  three  years  old. 
On  one  of  these  walks  grandfather  took  me  to 
Lord  Lauderdale's  gardens,  where  I  saw  figs 
[2  ] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

growing  against  a  sunny  wall  and  tasted  some 
of  them,  and  got  as  many  apples  to  eat  as  I 
wished.  On  another  memorable  walk  in  a  hay- 
field,  when  we  sat  down  to  rest  on  one  of  the 
haycocks  I  heard  a  sharp,  prickly,  stinging  cry, 
and,  jumping  up  eagerly,  called  grandfather's 
attention  to  it.  He  said  he  heard  only  the  wind, 
but  I  insisted  on  digging  into  the  hay  and  turn- 
ing it  over  until  we  discovered  the  source  of  the 
strange  exciting  sound,  —  a  mother  field  mouse 
with  half  a  dozen  naked  young  hanging  to  her 
teats.  This  to  me  was  a  wonderful  discovery. 
No  hunter  could  have  been  more  excited  on 
discovering  a  bear  and  her  cubs  in  a  wilderness 
den. 

I  was  sent  to  school  before  I  had  completed 
my  third  year.  The  first  schoolday  was  doubt- 
less full  of  wonders,  but  I  am  not  able  to  recall 
any  of  them.  I  remember  the  servant  washing 
my  face  and  getting  soap  in  my  eyes,  and 
motner  hanging  a  little  green  bag  with  my  first 
book  in  it  around  my  neck  so  I  would  not  lose 
it,  and  its  blowing  back  in  the  sea-wind  like  a 
[  3) 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

flag.  But  before  I  was  sent  to  school  my  grand- 
father, as  I  was  told,  had  taught  me  my  letters 
from  shop  signs  across  the  street.  I  can  remem- 
ber distinctly  how  proud  I  was  when  I  had 
spelled  my  way  through  the  little  first  book 
into  the  second,  which  seemed  large  and 
important,  and  so  on  to  the  third.  Going  from 
one  book  to  another  formed  a  grand  triumphal 
advancement,  the  memories  of  which  still 
stand  out  in  clear  relief. 

The  third  book  contained  interesting  stories 
as  well  as  plain  reading-  and  spelling-lessons. 
To  me  the  best  story  of  all  was  "Llewellyn's 
Dog,"  the  first  animal  that  comes  to  mind 
after  the  needle-voiced  field  mouse.  It  so 
Deeply  interested  and  touched  me  and  some  of 
my  classmates  that  we  read  it  over  and  over 
with  aching  hearts,  both  in  and  out  of  school 
and  shed  bitter  tears  over  the  brave  faithful 
dog,  Gelert,  slain  by  his  own  master,  who  im- 
agined that  he  had  devoured  his  son  because 
he  came  to  him  all  bloody  when  the  boy  was 
lost,  though  he  had  saved  the  child's  life  by 
[41 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

killing  a  big  wolf.  We  have  to  look  far  back  to 
learn  how  great  may  be  the  capacity  of  a  child's 
heart  for  sorrow  and  sympathy  with  animals 
as  well  as  with  human  friends  and  neighbors. 
This  auld-lang-syne  story  stands  out  in  the 
throng  of  old  schoolday  memories  as  clearly 
as  if  I  had  myself  been  one  of  that  Welsh 
hunting-party  —  heard  the  bugles  blowing, 
seen  Gelert  slain,  joined  in  the  search  for  the 
lost  child,  discovered  it  at  last  happy  and  smil- 
ing among  the  grass  and  bushes  beside  the  dead, 
mangled  wolf,  and  wept  with  Llewellyn  over 
the  sad  fate  of  his  noble,  faithful  dog  friend. 

Another  favorite  in  this  book  was  Southey's 
poem  "The  Inchcape  Bell,"  a  story  of  a  priest 
and  a  pirate.  A  good  priest  in  order  to  warn 
seamen  in  dark  stormy  weather  hung  a  big 
bell  on  the  dangerous  Inchcape  Rock.  The 
greater  the  storm  and  higher  the  waves,  the 
louder  rang  the  warning  bell,  until  it  was  cut 
off  and  sunk  by  wicked  Ralph  the  Rover.  One 
fine  day,  as  the  story  goes,  when  the  bell  was 
ringing  gently,  the  pirate  put  out  to  the  rock, 

[si 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

saying,  "I'll  sink  that  bell  and  plague  the 
Abbot  of  Aberbrothok."  So  he  cut  the  rope, 
and  down  went  the  bell  "with  a  gurgling  sound ; 
the  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around,"  etc.  Then 
"Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away;  he  scoured  the 
seas  for  many  a  day;  and  now,  grown  rich  with 
plundered  store,  he  steers  his  course  for  Scot- 
land's shore."  Then  came  a  terrible  storm  with 
cloud  darkness  and  night  darkness  and  high 
roaring  waves.  "Now  where  we  are,"  cried  the 
pirate,  "I  cannot  tell,  but  I  wish  I  could  hear 
the  Inchcape  bell."  And  the  story  goes  on  to 
tell  how  the  wretched  rover  "tore  his  hair," 
and  "curst  himself  in  his  despair,"  when  "with 
a  shivering  shock"  the  stout  ship  struck  on  the 
Inchcape  Rock,  and  went  down  with  Ralph 
and  his  plunder  beside  the  good  priest's  bell. 
The  story  appealed  to  Our  love  of  kind  deeds 
and  of  wildness  and  fair  play. 

A  lot  of  terrifying  experiences  connected 
with  these  first  schooldays  grew  out  of  crimes 
committed  by  the  keeper  of  a  low  lodging- 
house  in  Edinburgh,  who  allowed  poor  home- 
[6] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

less  wretches  to  sleep  on  benches  or  the  floor  for 
a  penny  or  so  a  night,  and,  when  kind  Death 
came  to  their  relief,  sold  the  bodies  for  dissec- 
tion to  'Dr.  Hare  of  the  medical  school.  None 
of  us  children  ever  heard  anything  like  the 
original  story.  The  servant  girls  told  us  that 
"Dandy  Doctors,"  clad  in  long  black  cloaks 
and  supplied  with  a  store  of  sticking-plaster  of 
wondrous  adhesiveness,  prowled  at  night  about 
the  country  lanes  and  even  the  town  streets, 
watching  for  children  to  choke  and  sell.  The 
Dandy  Doctor's  business  method,  as  the  serv- 
ants explained  it,  was  with  lightning  quick- 
ness to  clap  a  sticking-plaster  on  the  face  of  a 
scholar,  covering  mouth  and  nose,  preventing 
breathing  or  crying  for  help,  then  pop  us  under 
his  long  black  cloak  and  carry  us  to  Edinburgh 
to  be  sold  and  sliced  into  small  pieces  for  folk 
to  learn  how  we  were  made.  We  always  men- 
tioned the  name  "Dandy  Doctor"  in  a  fearful 
whisper,  and  never  dared  venture  out  of  doors 
after  dark.  In  the  short  winter  days  it  got  dark 
before  school  closed,  and  in  cloudy  weather  we 
t7l 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

sometimes  had  difficulty  in  finding  our  way 
home  unless  a  servant  with  a  lantern  was  sent 
for  us ;  but  during  the  Dandy  Doctor  period  the 
school  was  closed  earlier,  for  if  detained  until 
the  usual  hour  the  teacher  could  not  get  us  to 
leave  the  schoolroom.  We  would  rather  stay 
all  night  supperless  than  dare  the  mysterious 
doctors  supposed  to  be  lying  in  wait  for  us.  We 
had  to  go  up  a  hill  called  the  Davel  Brae  that 
lay  between  the  schoolhouse  and  the  main 
street.  One  evening  just  before  dark,  as  we 
were  running  up  the  hill,  one  of  the  boys 
shouted,  "A  Dandy  Doctor!  A  Dandy  Doctor!" 
and  we  all  fled  pellmell  back  into  the  school- 
house  to  the  astonishment  of  Mungo  Siddons, 
the  teacher.  I  can  remember  to  this  day  the 
amused  look  on  the  good  dominie's  face  as  he 
stared  and  tried  to  guess  what  had  got  into  us, 
until  one  of  the  older  boys  breathlessly  ex- 
plained that  there  was  an  awful  big  Dandy 
Doctor  on  the  Brae  and  we  couldna  gang  hame. 
Others  corroborated  the  dreadful  news.  "Yes! 
We  saw  him,  plain  as  onything,  with  his  lang 
[8] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

black  cloak  to  hide  us  in,  and  some  of  us 
thought  we  saw  a  sticken-plaister  ready  in  his 
hand."  We  were  in  such  a  state  of  fear  and 
trembling  that  the  teacher  saw  he  wasn't 
going  to  get  rid  of  us  without  going  himself  as 
leader.  He  went  only  a  short  distance,  however, 
and  turned  us  over  to  the  care  of  the  two  biggest 
scholars,  who  led  us  to  the  top  of  the  Brae  and 
then  left  us  to  scurry  home  and  dash  into  the 
door  like  pursued  squirrels  diving  into  their 
holes. 

Just  before  school  skaled  (closed),  we  all 
arose  and  sang  the  fine  hymn  "Lord,  dismiss  us 
with  Thy  blessing."  In  the  spring  when  the 
swallows  were  coming  back  from  their  winter 
homes  we  sang  — 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  little  stranger, 
Welcome  from  a  foreign  shore; 
Safe  escaped  from  many  a  danger  .  .  ." 

and  while  singing  we  all  swayed  in  rhythm  with 
the  music.  "The  Cuckoo/'  that  always  told 
his  name  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  was  another 
favorite  song,  and  when  there  was  nothing  in 
[91 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

particular  to  call  to  mind  any  special  bird  or 
animal,  the  songs  we  sang  were  widely  varied, 
such  as 

"  The  whale,  the  whale  is  the  beast  for  me, 
Plunging  along  through  the  deep,  deep  sea." 

But  the  best  of  all  was  "Lord,  dismiss  us  with 
Thy  blessing,"  though  at  that  time  the  most 
significant  part  I  fear  was  the  first  three  words. 
With  my  school  lessons  father  made  me  learn 
hymns  and  Bible  verses.  For  learning  "Rock  of 
Ages"  he  gave  me  a  penny,  and  I  thus  became 
suddenly  rich.  Scotch  boys  are  seldom  spoiled 
with  money.  We  thought  more  of  a  penny 
those  economical  days  than  the  poorest  Amer- 
ican schoolboy  thinks  of  a  dollar.  To  decide 
what  to  do  with  that  first  penny  was  an  ex- 
travagantly serious  affair.  I  ran  in  great  excite- 
ment up  and  down  the  street,  examining  the 
tempting  goodies  in  the  shop  windows  before 
venturing  on  so  important  an  investment. 
My  playmates  also  became  excited  when  the 
wonderful  news  got  abroad  that  Johnnie  Muir 
had  a  penny,  hoping  to  obtain  a  taste  of  the 
[  10  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

orange,  apple,  or  candy  it  was  likely  to  bring 
forth. 

At  this  time  infants  were  baptized  and  vac- 
cinated a  few  days  after  birth.  I  remember 
very  well  a  fight  with  the  doctor  when  my 
brother  David  was  vaccinated.  This  hap- 
pened, I  think,  before  I  was  sent  to  school.  I 
could  n't  imagine  what  the  doctor,  a  tall, 
severe-looking  man  in  black,  was  doing  to  my 
brother,  but  as  mother,  who  was  holding  him 
in  her  arms,  offered  no  objection,  I  looked  on 
quietly  while  he  scratched  the  arm  until  I  saw 
blood.  Then,  unable  to  trust  even  my  mother, 
I  managed  to  spring  up  high  enough  to  grab 
and  bite  the  doctor's  arm,  yelling  that  I  wasna 
gan  to  let  him  hurt  my  bonnie  brither,  while 
to  my  utter  astonishment  mother  and  the 
doctor  only  laughed  at  me.  So  far  from  com- 
plete at  times  is  sympathy  between  parents 
and  children,  and  so  much  like  wild  beasts  are 
baby  boys,  little  fighting,  biting,  climbing 
pagans. 

Father  was  proud  of  his  garden  and  seemed 

t  ii  i 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

always  to  be  trying  to  make  it  as  much  like 
Eden  as  possible,  and  in  a  corner  of  it  he  gave 
each  of  us  a  little  bit  of  ground  for  our  very 
own  in  which  we  planted  what  we  best  liked, 
wondering  how  the  hard  dry  seeds  could  change 
into  soft  leaves  and  flowers  and  find  their  way 
out  to  the  light;  and,  to  see  how  they  were 
coming  on,  we  used  to  dig  up  the  larger  ones, 
such  as  peas  and  beans,  every  day.  My  aunt 
had  a  corner  assigned  to  her  in  our  garden 
which  she  filled  with  lilies,  and  we  all  looked 
with  the  utmost  respect  and  admiration  at  that 
precious  lily-bed  and  wondered  whether  when 
we  grew  up  we  should  ever  be  rich  enough  to 
own  one  anything  like  so  grand.  We  imagined 
that  each  lily  was  worth  an  enormous  sum  of 
money  and  never  dared  to  touch  a  single  leaf 
or  petal  of  them.  We  really  stood  in  awe  of 
them.  Far,  far  was  I  then  from  the  wild  lily 
gardens  of  California  that  I  was  destined  to  see 
in  their  glory. 

When  I  was  a  little  boy  at  Mungo  Siddons's 
school  a  flower-show  was  held  in  Dunbar,  and 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

I  saw  a  number  of  the  exhibitors  carrying  large 
handfuls  of  dahlias,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen. 
I  thought  them  marvelous  in  size  and  beauty 
and,  as  in  the  case  of  my  aunt's  lilies,  wondered 
if  I  should  ever  be  rich  enough  to  own  some  of 
them. 

Although  I  never  dared  to  touch  my  aunt's 
sacred  lilies,  I  have  good  cause  to  remember 
stealing  some  common  flowers  from  an  apothe- 
cary, Peter  Lawson,  who  also  answered  the 
purpose  of  a  regular  physician  to  most  of  the 
poor  people  of  the  town  and  adjacent  country. 
He  had  a  pony  which  was  considered  very  wild 
and  dangerous,  and  when  he  was  called  out  of 
town  he  mounted  this  wonderful  beast,  which, 
after  standing  long  in  the  stable,  was  frisky 
and  boisterous,  and  often  to  our  delight  reared 
and  jumped  and  danced  about  from  side  to 
side  of  the  street  before  he  could  be  persuaded 
to  go  ahead.  We  boys  gazed  in  awful  admiration 
and  wondered  how  the  druggist  could  be  so 
brave  and  able  as  to  get  on  and  stay  on  that 
wild  beast's  back.  This  famous  Peter  loved 
[  13! 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

flowers  and  had  a  fine  garden  surrounded  by  an 
iron  fence,  through  the  bars  of  which,  when  I 
thought  no  one  saw  me,  I  oftentimes  snatched 
a  flower  and  took  to  my  heels.  One  day  Peter 
discovered  me  in  this  mischief,  dashed  out  into 
the  street  and  caught  me.  I  screamed  that  I 
wouldna  steal  any  more  if  he  would  let  me  go. 
He  did  n't  say  anything  but  just  dragged  me 
along  to  the  stable  where  he  kept  the  wild 
pony,  pushed  me  in  right  back  of  its  heels,  and 
shut  the  door.  I  was  screaming,  of  course,  but 
as  soon  as  I  was  imprisoned  the  fear  of  being 
kicked  quenched  all  noise.  I  hardly  dared 
breathe.  My  only  hope  was  in  motionless 
silence.  Imagine  the  agony  I  endured!  I  did 
not  steal  any  more  of  his  flowers.  He  was  a 
good  hard  judge  of  boy  nature.^ 

I  was  in  Peter's  hands  some  time  before  this, 
when  I  was  about  two  and  a  half  years  old. 
The  servant  girl  bathed  us  small  folk  before 
putting  us  to  bed.  The  smarting  soapy  scrub- 
bings  of  the  Saturday  nights  in  preparation 
for  the  Sabbath  were  particularly  severe,  and 
[  14  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

we  all  dreaded  them.  My  sister  Sarah,  the 
next  older  than  me,  wanted  the  long-legged 
stool  I  was  sitting  on  awaiting  my  turn,  so  she 
just  tipped  me  off.  My  chin  struck  on  the  edge 
of  the  bath-tub,  and,  as  I  was  talking  at  the 
time,  my  tongue  happened  to  be  in  the  way  of 
my  teeth  when  they  were  closed  by  the  blow, 
and  a  deep  gash  was  cut  on  the  side  of  it,  which 
bled  profusely.  Mother  came  running  at  the 
noise  I  made,  wrapped  me  up,  put  me  in  the 
servant  girl's  arms  and  told  her  to  run  with  me 
through  the  garden  and  out  by  a  back  way  to 
Peter  Lawson  to  have  something  done  to  stop 
the  bleeding.  He  simply  pushed  a  wad  of  cotton 
into  my  mouth  after  soaking  it  in  some  brown 
astringent  stuff,  and  told  me  to  be  sure  to  keep 
my  mouth  shut  and  all  would  soon  be  well. 
Mother  put  me  to  bed,  calmed  my  fears,  and 
told  me  to  lie  still  and  sleep  like  a  gude  bairn. 
But  just  as  I  was  dropping  off  to  sleep  I  swal- 
lowed the  bulky  wad  of  medicated  cotton  and 
with  it,  as  I  imagined,  my  tongue  also.  My 
screams  over  so  great  a  loss  brought  mother, 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

and  when  she  anxiously  took  me  in  her  arms 
and  inquired  what  was  the  matter,  I  told  her 
that  I  had  swallowed  my  tongue.  She  only 
laughed  at  me,  much  to  my  astonishment, 
when  I  expected  that  she  would  bewail  the 
awful  loss  her  boy  had  sustained.  My  sisters, 
who  were  older  than  I,  oftentimes  said  when  I 
happened  to  be  talking  too  much,  "It's  a  pity 
you  had  n't  swallowed  at  least  half  of  that  long 
tongue  of  yours  when  you  were  little." 

It  appears  natural  for  children  to  be  fond  of 
water,  although  the  Scotch  method  of  making 
every  duty  dismal  contrived  to  make  necessary 
bathing  for  health  terrible  to  us.  I  well  remem- 
ber among  the  awful  experiences  of  childhood 
being  taken  by  the  servant  to  the  seashore 
when  I  was  between  two  and  three  years  old, 
stripped  at  the  side  of  a  deep  pool  in  the  rocks, 
plunged  into  it  among  crawling  crawfish  and 
slippery  wriggling  snake-like  eels,  and  drawn 
up  gasping  and  shrieking  only  to  be  plunged 
down  again  and  again.  As  the  time  approached 
for  this  terrible  bathing,  I  used  to  hide  in  the 
[  16  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

darkest  corners  of  the  house,  and  oftentimes 
a  long  search  was  required  to  find  me.  But  after 
we  were  a  few  years  older,  we  enjoyed  bathing 
with  other  boys  as  we  wandered  along  the  shore, 
careful,  however,  not  to  get  into  a  pool  that 
had  an  invisible  boy-devouring  monster  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  Such  pools,  miniature  maelstroms, 
were  called  "sookin-in-goats"  and  were  well 
known  to  most  of  us.  Nevertheless  we  never 
ventured  into  any  pool  on  strange  parts  of  the 
coast  before  we  had  thrust  a  stick  into  it.  If 
the  stick  were  not  pulled  out  of  our  hands,  we 
boldly  entered  and  enjoyed  plashing  and  duck- 
ing long  ere  we  had  learned  to  swim. 

One  of  our  best  playgrounds  was  the  famous 
old  Dunbar  Castle,  to  which  King  Edward  fled 
after  his  defeat  at  Bannockburn.  It  was  built 
more  than  a  thousand  years  ago,  and  though 
we  knew  little  of  its  history,  we  had  heard 
many  mysterious  stories  of  the  battles  fought 
about  its  walls,  and  firmly  believed  that  every 
bone  we  found  in  the  ruins  belonged  to  an 
ancient  warrior.  We  tried  to  see  who  could 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

climb  highest  on  the  crumbling  peaks  and 
crags,  and  took  chances  that  no  cautious  moun- 
taineer would  try.  That  I  did  not  fall  and 
finish  my  rock-scrambling  in  those  adventurous 
boyhood  days  seems  now  a  reasonable  wonder. 

Among  our  best  games  were  running,  jump- 
ing, wrestling,  and  scrambling.  I  was  so  proud 
of  my  skill  as  a  climber  that  when  I  first  heard 
of  hell  from  a  servant  girl  who  loved  to  tell  its 
horrors  and  warn  us  that  if  we  did  anything 
wrong  we  would  be  cast  into  it,  I  always  in- 
sisted that  I  could  climb  out  of  it.  I  imagined 
it  was  only  a  sooty  pit  with  stone  walls  like 
those  of  the  castle,  and  I  felt  sure  there  must  be 
chinks  and  cracks  in  the  masonry  for  fingers 
and  toes.  Anyhow  the  terrors  of  the  horrible 
place  seldom  lasted  long  beyond  the  telling; 
for  natural  faith  casts  out  fear. 

Most  of  the  Scotch  children  believe  in  ghosts, 
and  some  under  peculiar  conditions  continue 
to  believe  in  them  all  through  life.  Grave 
ghosts  are  deemed  particularly  dangerous,  and 
many  of  the  most  credulous  will  go  far  out  of 
[  18  ] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

their  way  to  avoid  passing  through  or  near  a 
graveyard  in  the  dark.  After  being  instructed 
by  the  servants  in  the  nature,  looks,  and  habits 
of  the  various  black  and  white  ghosts,  boowuz- 
zies,  and  witches  we  often  speculated  as  to 
whether  they  could  run  fast,  and  tried  to  be- 
lieve that  we  had  a  good  chance  to  get  away 
from  most  of  them.  To  improve  our  speed  and 
wind,  we  often  took  long  runs  into  the  country. 
Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mare  outran  a  lot  of  witches, 
—  at  least  until  she  reached  a  place  of  safety 
beyond  the  keystone  of  the  bridge,  —  and  we 
thought  perhaps  we  also  might  be  able  to  out- 
run them. 

Our  house  formerly  belonged  to  a  physician, 
and  a  servant  girl  told  us  that  the  ghost  of  the 
dead  doctor  haunted  one  of  the  unoccupied 
rooms  in  the  second  story  that  was  kept  dark 
on  account  of  a  heavy  window-tax.  Our  bed- 
room was  adjacent  to  the  ghost  room,  which 
had  in  it  a  lot  of  chemical  apparatus,  —  glass 
tubing,  glass  and  brass  retorts,  test-tubes, 
flasks,  etc.,  —  and  we  thought  that  those 
[  19  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

strange  articles  were  still  used  by  the  old  dead 
doctor  in  compounding  physic.  In  the  long 
summer  days  David  and  I  were  put  to  bed 
several  hours  before  sunset.  Mother  tucked 
us  in  carefully,  drew  the  curtains  of  the  big 
old-fashioned  bed,  and  told  us  to  lie  still  and 
sleep  like  gude  bairns ;  but  we  were  usually  out 
of  bed,  playing  games  of  daring  called  "  scootch- 
ers,"  about  as  soon  as  our  loving  mother  reached 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  for  we  could  n't  lie  still, 
however  hard  we  might  try.  Going  into  the 
ghost  room  was  regarded  as  a  very  great 
scootcher.  After  venturing  in  a  few  steps  and 
rushing  back  in  terror,  I  used  to  dare  David  to 
go  as  far  without  getting  caught. 

The  roof  of  our  house,  as  well  as  the  crags 
and  walls  of  the  old  castle,  offered  fine  moun- 
taineering exercise.  Our  bedroom  was  lighted 
by  a  dormer  window.  One  night  I  opened  it  in 
search  of  good  scootchers  and  hung  myself  out 
over  the  slates,  holding  on  to  the  sill,  while  the 
wind  was  making  a  balloon  of  my  nightgown. 
I  then  dared  David  to  try  the  adventure,  and 
f  20  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

he  did.  Then  I  went  out  again  and  hung  by 
one  hand,  and  David  did  the  same.  Then  I 
hung  by  one  finger,  being  careful  not  to  slip, 
and  he  did  that  too.  Then  I  stood  on  the  sill 
and  examined  the  edge  of  the  left  wall  of  the 
window,  crept  up  the  slates  along  its  side  by 
slight  finger-holds,  got  astride  of  the  roof,  sat 
there  a  few  minutes  looking  at  the  scenery  over 
the  garden  wall  while  the  wind  was  howling 
and  threatening  to  blow  me  off,  then  managed 
to  slip  down,  catch  hold  of  the  sill,  and  get 
safely  back  into  the  room.  But  before  attempt- 
ing this  scootcher,  recognizing  its  dangerous 
character,  with  commendable  caution  I  warned 
David  that  in  case  I  should  happen  to  slip  I 
would  grip  the  rain-trough  when  I  was  going 
over  the  eaves  and  hang  on,  and  that  he  must 
then  run  fast  downstairs  and  tell  father  to  get 
a  ladder  for  me,  and  tell  him  to  be  quick  be- 
cause I  would  soon  be  tired  hanging  dangling 
in  the  wind  by  my  hands.  After  my  return  from 
this  capital  scootcher,  David,  not  to  be  out- 
done, crawled  up  to  the  top  of  the  window- 
[  21  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

roof,  and  got  bravely  astride  of  it ;  but  in  try- 
ing to  return  he  lost  courage  and  began  to 
greet  (to  cry),  "I  canna  get  doon.  Oh,  I  canna 
get  doon/'  I  leaned  out  of  the  window  and 
shouted  encouragingly,  "Dinna  greet,  Davie, 
dinna  greet,  I'll  help  ye  doon.  If  you  greet, 
fayther  will  hear,  and  gee  us  baith  an  awfu' 
skelping."  Then,  standing  on  the  sill  and  hold- 
ing on  by  one  hand  to  the  window-casing,  I 
directed  him  to  slip  his  feet  down  within  reach, 
and,  after  securing  a  good  hold,  I  jumped 
inside  and  dragged  him  in  by  his  heels.  This 
\i  finished  scootcher-scrambling  for  the  night  and 
frightened  us  into  bed. 

In  the  short  winter  days,  when  it  was  dark 
even  at  our  early  bedtime,  we  usually  spent 
the  hours  before  going  to  sleep  playing  voyages 
around  the  world  under  the  bed-clothing.  After 
mother  had  carefully  covered  us,  bade  us  good- 
night and  gone  downstairs,  we  set  out  on  our 
travels.  Burrowing  like  moles,  we  visited 
France,  India,  America,  Australia,  New  Zea- 
land, and  all  the  places  we  had  ever  heard  of  ; 

[    22    ] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

our  travels  never  ending  until  we  fell  asleep. 
When  mother  came  to  take  a  last  look  at  us, 
before  she  went  to  bed,  to  see  that  we  were 
covered,  we  were  oftentimes  covered  so  well 
that  she  had  difficulty  in  finding  us,  for  we 
were  hidden  in  all  sorts  of  positions  where 
sleep  happened  to  overtake  us,  but  in  the  morn- 
ing we  always  found  ourselves  in  good  order, 
lying  straight  like  gude  bairns,  as  she  said. 

Some  fifty  years  later,  when  I  visited  Scot- 
land, I  got  one  of  my  Dunbar  schoolmates  to 
introduce  me  to  the  owners  of  our  old  home, 
from  whom  I  obtained  permission  to  go  up- 
stairs to  examine  our  bedroom  window  and 
judge  what  sort  of  adventure  getting  on  its 
roof  must  have  been,  and  with  all  my  after 
experience  in  mountaineering,  I  found  that 
what  I  had  done  in  daring  boyhood  was  now 
beyond  my  skill. 

Boys  are  often  at  once  cruel  and  merciful, 

thoughtlessly  hard-hearted  and  tender-hearted, 

sympathetic,  pitiful,  and  kind  in  ever  changing 

contrasts.  Love  of  neighbors,  human  or  animal, 

[   23  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

grows  up  amid  savage  traits,  coarse  and  fine. 
When  father  made  out  to  get  us  securely  locked 
up  in  the  back  yard  to  prevent  our  shore  and 
field  wanderings,  we  had  to  play  away  the  com- 
paratively dull  time  as  best  we  could.  One  of 
our  amusements  was  hunting  cats  without 
seriously  hurting  them.  These  sagacious  ani- 
mals knew,  however,  that,  though  not  very 
dangerous,  boys  were  not  to  be  trusted.  One 
time  in  particular  I  remember,  when  we  began 
throwing  stones  at  an  experienced  old  Tom, 
not  wishing  to  hurt  him  much,  though  he  was 
a  tempting  mark.  He  soon  saw  what  we  were 
up  to,  fled  to  the  stable,  and  climbed  to  the 
top  of  the  hay  manger.  He  was  still  within 
range,  however,  and  we  kept  the  stones  flying 
faster  and  faster,  but  he  just  blinked  and 
played  possum  without  wincing  either  at  our 
best  shots  or  at  the  noise  we  made.  I  hap- 
pened to  strike  him  pretty  hard  with  a  good- 
sized  pebble,  but  he  still  blinked  and  sat  still 
as  if  without  feeling.  "He  must  be  mortally 
wounded,"  I  said,  "and  now  we  must  kill  him 
[  24  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

to  put  him  out  of  pain,"  the  savage  in  us  rap- 
idly growing  with  indulgence.  All  took  heartily 
to  this  sort  of  cat  mercy  and  began  throwing 
the  heaviest  stones  we  could  manage,  but  that 
old  fellow  knew  what  characters  we  were,  and 
just  as  we  imagined  him  mercifully  dead  he 
evidently  thought  the  play  was  becoming  too 
serious  and  that  it  was  time  to  retreat;  for 
suddenly  with  a  wild  whirr  and  gurr  of  energy 
he  launched  himself  over  our  heads,  rushed 
across  the  yard  in  a  blur  of  speed,  climbed  to 
the  roof  of  another  building  and  over  the 
garden  wall,  out  of  pain  and  bad  company, 
with  all  his  lives  wideawake  and  in  good  work- 
ing order. 

After  we  had  thus  learned  that  Tom  had  at 
least  nine  lives,  we  tried  to  verify  the  common 
saying  that  no  matter  how  far  cats  fell  they 
always  landed  on  their  feet  unhurt.  We  caught 
one  in  our  back  yard,  not  Tom  but  a  smaller 
one  of  manageable  size,  and  somehow  got  him 
smuggled  up  to  the  top  story  of  the  house.  I 
don't  know  how  in  the  world  we  managed  to 
[  25  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

let  go  of  him,  for  as  soon  as  we  opened  the  win- 
dow and  held  him  over  the  sill  he  knew  his 
danger  and  made  violent  efforts  to  scratch  and 
bite  his  way  back  into  the  room;  but  we  de- 
termined to  carry  the  thing  through,  and  at  last 
managed  to  drop  him.  I  can  remember  to  this 
day  how  the  poor  creature  in  danger  of  his  life 
strained  and  balanced  as  he  was  falling  and 
managed  to  alight  on  his  feet.  This  was  a  cruel 
thing  for  even  wild  boys  to  do,  and  we  never 
tried  the  experiment  again,  for  we  sincerely 
pitied  the  poor  fellow  when  we  saw  him  creep- 
ing slowly  away,  stunned  and  frightened,  with 
a  swollen  black  and  blue  chin. 

Again  —  showing  the  natural  savagery  of 
boys — we  delighted  in  dog-fights,  and  even  in 
the  horrid  red  work  of  slaughter-houses,  often 
running  long  distances  and  climbing  over  walls 
and  roofs  to  see  a  pig  killed,  as  soon  as  we  heard 
the  desperately  earnest  squealing.  And  if  the 
butcher  was  good-natured,  we  begged  him  to  let 
us  get  a  near  view  of  the  mysterious  insides  and 
to  give  us  a  bladder  to  blow  up  for  a  foot-ball. 
[  26  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

But  here  is  an  illustration  of  the  better  side 
of  boy  nature.  In  our  back  yard  there  were 
three  elm  trees  and  in  the  one  nearest  the  house 
a  pair  of  robin-redbreasts  had  their  nest.  When 
the  young  were  almost  able  to  fly,  a  troop  of 
the  celebrated  "Scottish  Grays,"  visited  Dun- 
bar,  and  three  or  four  of  the  fine  horses  were 
lodged  in  our  stable.  When  the  soldiers  were 
polishing  their  swords  and  helmets,  they  hap- 
pened to  notice  the  nest,  and  just  as  they  were 
leaving,  one  of  them  climbed  the  tree  and 
robbed  it.  With  sore  sympathy  we  watched 
the  young  birds  as  the  hard-hearted  robber 
pushed  them  one  by  one  beneath  his  jacket,  — 
all  but  two  that  jumped  out  of  the  nest  and 
tried  to  fly,  but  they  were  easily  caught  as 
they  fluttered  on  the  ground,  and  were  hidden 
away  with  the  rest.  The  distress  of  the  be- 
reaved parents,  as  they  hovered  and  screamed 
over  the  frightened  crying  children  they  so  long 
had  loved  and  sheltered  and  fed,  was  pitiful  to 
see;  but  the  shining  soldier  rode  grandly  away 
on  his  big  gray  horse,  caring  only  for  the  few 
[  27  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

pennies  the  young  songbirds  would  bring  and 
the  beer  they  would  buy,  while  we  all,  sisters 
and  brothers,  were  crying  and  sobbing.  I 
remember,  as  if  it  happened  this  day,  how  my 
heart  fairly  ached  and  choked  me.  Mother 
put  us  to  bed  and  tried  to  comfort  us,  telling  us 
that  the  little  birds  would  be  well  fed  and  grow 
big,  and  soon  learn  to  sing  in  pretty  cages ;  but 
again  and  again  we  rehearsed  the  sad  story  of 
the  poor  bereaved  birds  and  their  frightened 
children,  and  could  not  be  comforted.  Father 
came  into  the  room  when  we  were  half  asleep 
and  still  sobbing,  and  I  heard  mother  telling 
him  that,  "a'  the  bairns'  hearts  were  broken 
over  the  robbing  of  the  nest  in  the  elm." 

After  attaining  the  manly,  belligerent  age  of 
five  or  six  years,  very  few  of  my  schooldays 
passed  without  a  fist  fight,  and  half  a  dozen 
was  no  uncommon  number.  When  any  class- 
mate of  our  own  age  questioned  our  rank  and 
standing  as  fighters,  we  always  made  haste  to 
settle  the  matter  at  a  quiet  place  on  the  Davel 
Brae.  To  be  a  "gude  fechter"  was  our  highest 
[  28  ] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

ambition,  our  dearest  aim  in  life  in  or  out  of 
school.  To  be  a  good  scholar  was  a  secondary 
consideration,  though  we  tried  hard  to  hold 
high  places  in  our  classes  and  gloried  in  being 
Dux.  We  fairly  reveled  in  the  battle  stories  of 
glorious  William  Wallace  and  Robert  the  Bruce, 
with  which  every  breath  of  Scotch  air  is  sat- 
urated, and  of  course  we  were  all  going  to  be 
soldiers.  On  the  Davel  Brae  battleground  we 
often  managed  to  bring  on  something  like  real 
war,  greatly  more  exciting  than  personal  com- 
bat. Choosing  leaders,  we  divided  into  two 
armies.  In  winter  damp  snow  furnished  plenty 
of  ammunition  to  make  the  thing  serious,  and 
in  summer  sand  and  grass  sods.  Cheering  and 
shouting  some  battle-cry  such  as  "Bannock- 
burn!  Bannockburn!  Scotland  forever!  The 
Last  War  in  India!"  we  were  led  bravely  on. 
For  heavy  battery  work  we  stuffed  our  Scotch 
blue  bonnets  with  snow  and  sand,  sometimes 
mixed  with  gravel,  and  fired  them  at  each 
other  as  cannon-balls. 

Of  course  we  always  looked  eagerly  forward 
[  29  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

to  vacation  days  and  thought  them  slow  in 
coming.  Old  Mungo  Siddons  gave  us  a  lot  of 
gooseberries  or  currants  and  wished  us  a  happy 
time.  Some  sort  of  special  closing-exercises  — 
singing,  recitations,  etc.  —  celebrated  the  great 
day,  but  I  remember  only  the  berries,  freedom 
from  school  work,  and  opportunities  for  run- 
away rambles  in  the  fields  and  along  the  wave- 
beaten  seashore.  ^ 

An  exciting  time  came  when  at  the  age  of 
seven  or  eight  years  I  left  the  auld  Davel  Brae 
school  for  the  grammar  school.  Of  course  I 
had  a  terribk  lot  of  fighting  to  do,  because  a 
new  scholar  had  to  meet  every  one  of  his  age 
who  dared  to  challenge  him,  this  being  the 
common  introduction  to  a  new  school.  It  was 
very  strenuous  for  the  first  month  or  so,  estab- 
lishing my  fighting  rank,  taking  up  new  studies, 
especially  Latin  and  French,  getting  acquainted 
with  new  classmates  and  the  master  and  his 
rules.  In  the  first  few  Latin  and  French  lessons 
the  new  teacher,  Mr.  Lyon,  blandly  smiled  at 
our  comical  blunders,  but  pedagogical  weather 
[  30  ] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

of  the  severest  kind  quickly  set  in,  when  for 
every  mistake,  everything  short  of  perfection, 
the  taws  was  promptly  applied.  We  had  to 
get  three  lessons  every  day  in  Latin,  three  in 
French,  and  as  many  in  English,  besides  spell- 
ing, history,  arithmetic,  and  geography.  Word 
lessons  in  particular,  the  wouldst-couldst- 
shouldst-have-loved  kind,  were  kept  up,  with 
much  warlike  thrashing,  until  I  had  committed 
the  whole  of  the  French,  Latin,  and  English 
grammars  to  memory,  and  in  connection  with 
reading-lessons  we  were  called  on  to  recite 
parts  of  them  with  the  rules  .over  and  over 
again,  as  if  all  the  regular  and  irregular  incom- 
prehensible verb  stuff  was  poetry.  In  addition 
to  all  this,  father  made  me  learn  so  many  Bible 
verses  every  day  that  by  the  time  I  was  eleven 
years  of  age  I  had  about  three  fourths  of  the 
Old  Testament  and  all  of  the  New  by  heart 
and.  by  sore  flesh.  I  could  recite  the  New 
Testament  from  the  beginning  of  Matthew  to 
the  end  of  Revelation  without  a  single  stop. 
The  dangers  of  cramming  and  of  making 
[  31  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

scholars  study  at  home  instead  of  letting  their 
little  brains  rest  were  never  heard  of  in  those 
days.  We  carried  our  school-books  home  in  a 
strap  every  night  and  committed  to  memory 
our  next  day's  lessons  before  we  went  to  bed, 
and  to  do  that  we  had  to  bend  our  attention  as 
closely  on  our  tasks  as  lawyers  on  great  million- 
dollar  cases.  I  can't  conceive  of  anything  that 
would  now  enable  me  to  concentrate  my  atten- 
tion more  fully  than  when  I  was  a  mere  strip- 
ling boy,  and  it  was  all  done  by  whipping,  — 
thrashing  in  general.  Old-fashioned  Scotch 
teachers  spent  no  time  in  seeking  short  roads 
to  knowledge,  or  in  trying  any  of  the  new- 
fangled psychological  methods  so  much  in 
vogue  nowadays.  There  was  nothing  said  about 
making  the  seats  easy  or  the  lessons  easy.  We 
were  simply  driven  pointblank  against  our 
books  like  soldiers  against  the  enemy,  and 
sternly  ordered,  "Up  and  at  'em.  Commit  your 
lessons  to  memory!"  If  we  failed  in  any  part, 
however  slight,  we  were  whipped ;  for  the  grand, 
simple,  all-sufficing  Scotch  discovery  had  been 
[  32  I 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

made  that  there  was  a  close  connection  be- 
tween the  skin  and  the  memory,  and  that  irri- 
tating the  skin  excited  the  memory  to  any 
required  degree. 

Fighting  was  carried  on  still  more  vigorously 
in  the  high  school  than  in  the  common  school. 
Whenever  any  one  was  challenged,  either  the 
challenge  was  allowed  or  it  was  decided  by  a 
battle  on  the  seashore,  where  with  stubborn 
enthusiasm  we  battered  each  other  as  if  we  had 
not  been  sufficiently  battered  by  the  teacher. 
When  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to  finish  a  fight 
without  getting  a  black  eye,  we  usually  escaped 
a  thrashing  at  home  and  another  next  morning 
at  school,  for  other  traces  of  the  fray  could  be 
easily  washed  off  at  a  well  on  the  church  brae, 
or  concealed,  or  passed  as  results  of  playground 
accidents;  but  a  black  eye  could  never  be  ex- 
plained away  from  downright  fighting.  A  good 
double  thrashing  was  the  inevitable  penalty, 
but  all  without  avail;  fighting  went  on  without 
the  slightest  abatement,  like  natural  storms; 
for  no  punishment  less  than  death  could  quench 
[  33  ] 


-t 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

the  ancient  inherited  belligerence  burning  in 
our  pagan  blood.  Nor  could  we  be  made  to 
believe  it  was  fair  that  father  and  teacher 
should  thrash  us  so  industriously  for  our  good, 
while  begrudging  us  the  pleasure  of  thrashing 
each  other  for  our  good.  All  these  various 
thrashings,  however,  were  admirably  influen- 
tial in  developing  not  only  memory  but  forti- 
tude as  well.  For  if  we  did  not  endure  our 
school  punishments  and  fighting  pains  without 
flinching  and  making  faces,  we  were  mocked 
on  the  playground,  and  public  opinion  on  a 
Scotch  playground  was  a  powerful  agent  in 
controlling  behavior;  therefore  we  at  length 
managed  to  keep  our  features  in  smooth  repose 
while  enduring  pain  that  would  try  anybody 
but  an  American  Indian.  Far  from  feeling  that 
we  were  called  on  to  endure  too  much  pain,  one 
of  our  playground  games  was  thrashing  each 
other  with  whips  about  two  feet  long  made 
from  the  tough,  wiry  stems  of  a  species  of  poly- 
gonum  fastened  together  in  a  stiff,  firm  braid. 
One  of  us  handing  two  of  these  whips  to  a  com- 

1 34] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

panion  to  take  his  choice,  we  stood  up  close 
together  and  thrashed  each  other  on  the  legs 
until  one  succumbed  to  the  intolerable  pain 
and  thus  lost  the  game.  Nearly  all  of  our  play- 
ground games  were  strenuous,  —  shin-battering 
shinny,  wrestling,  prisoners'  base,  and  dogs 
and  hares,  —  all  augmenting  in  no  slight  degree 
our  lessons  in  fortitude.  Moreover,  we  regarded 
our  punishments  and  pains  of  every  sort  as 
training  for  war,  since  we  were  all  going  to  be 
soldiers.  Besides  single  combats  we  sometimes 
assembled  on  Saturdays  to  meet  the  scholars 
of  another  school,  and  very  little  was  required 
for  the  growth  of  strained  relations,  and  war. 
The  immediate  cause  might  be  nothing  more 
than  a  saucy  stare.  Perhaps  the  scholar  stared 
at  would  insolently  inquire,  "What  are  ye 
glowerin'  at,  Bob?"  Bob  would  reply,  "I'll 
look  where  I  hae  a  mind  and  hinder  me  if  ye 
daur."  "Weel,  Bob,"  the  outraged  stared-at 
scholar  would  reply, "  I  '11  soon  let  ye  see  whether 
I  daur  or  no!"  and  give  Bob  a  blow  on  the  face. 
This  opened  the  battle,  and  every  good  scholar 
I  35  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

belonging  to  either  school  was  drawn  into  it. 
After  both  sides  were  sore  and  weary,  a  strong- 
lunged  warrior  would  be  heard  above  the  din  of 
battle  shouting,  "I'll  tell  ye  what  we'll  dae 
wi'  ye.  If  ye  '11  let  us  alane  we  '11  let  ye  alane ! " 
and  the  school  war  ended  as  most  wars  between 
nations  do;  and  some  of  them  begin  in  much 
the  same  way. 

Notwithstanding  the  great  number  of  harshly 
enforced  rules,  not  very  good  order  was  kept  in 
school  in  my  time.  There  were  two  schools 
within  a  few  rods  of  each  other,  one  for  mathe- 
matics, navigation,  etc.,  the  other,  called  the 
grammar  school,  that  I  attended.  The  masters 
lived  in  a  big  freestone  house  within  eight  or 
ten  yards  of  the  schools,  so  that  they  could 
easily  step  out  for  anything  they  wanted  or 
send  one  of  the  scholars.  The  moment  our 
master  disappeared,  perhaps  for  a  book  or  a 
drink,  every  scholar  left  his  seat  and  his  lessons, 
jumped  on  top  of  the  benches  and  desks  or 
crawled  beneath  them,  tugging,  rolling,  wrest- 
ling, accomplishing  in  a  minute  a  depth  of 
[  36  ] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

disorder  and  din  unbelievable  save  by  a  Scot- 
tish scholar.  We  even  carried  on  war,  class 
against  class,  in  those  wild,  precious  minutes. 
A  watcher  gave  the  alarm  when  the  master 
opened  his  house-door  to  return,  and  it  was  a 
great  feat  to  get  into  our  places  before  he 
entered,  adorned  in  awful  majestic  authority, 
shouting  "Silence!"  and  striking  resounding 
blows  with  his  cane  on  a  desk  or  on  some  un- 
fortunate scholar's  back. 

Forty-seven  years  after  leaving  this  fighting 
school,  I  returned  on  a  visit  to  Scotland,  and  a 
cousin  in  Dunbar  introduced  me  to  a  minister 
who  was  acquainted  with  the  history  of  the 
school,  and  obtained  for  me  an  invitation  to 
dine  with  the  new  master.  Of  course  I  gladly 
accepted,  for  I  wanted  to  see  the  old  place  of 
fun  and  pain,  and  the  battleground  on  the 
sands.  Mr.  Lyon,  our  able  teacher  and  thrasher, 
I  learned,  had  held  his  place  as  master  of  the 
school  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  after  I  left  it, 
and  had  recently  died  in  London,  after  prepar- 
ing many  young  men  for  the  English  Univers- 
[  37  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

ities.  At  the  dinner-table,  while  I  was  recalling 
the  amusements  and  fights  of  my  old  school- 
days, the  minister  remarked  to  the  new  master, 
"Now,  don't  you  wish  that  you  had  been 
teacher  in  those  days,  and  gained  the  honor 
of  walloping  John  Muir?"  This  pleasure  so 
merrily  suggested  showed  that  the  minister 
also  had  been  a  fighter  in  his  youth.  The  old 
freestone  school  building  was  still  perfectly 
sound,  but  the  carved,  ink-stained  desks  were 
almost  whittled  away. 

The  highest  part  of  our  playground  back  of 
the  school  commanded  a  view  of  the  sea,  and 
we  loved  to  watch  the  passing  ships  and,  judg- 
ing by  their  rigging,  make  guesses  as  to  the 
ports  they  had  sailed  from,  those  to  which  they 
were  bound,  what  they  were  loaded  with,  their 
tonnage,  etc.  In  stormy  weather  they  were  all 
smothered  in  clouds  and  spray,  and  showers  of 
salt  scud  torn  from  the  tops  of  the  waves  came 
flying  over  the  playground  wall.  In  those  tre- 
mendous storms  many  a  brave  ship  foundered 
or  was  tossed  and  smashed  on  the  rocky  shore. 
[  38  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

When  a  wreck  occurred  within  a  mile  or  two  of 
the  town,  we  often  managed  by  running  fast 
to  reach  it  and  pick  up  some  of  the  spoils.  In 
particular  I  remember  visiting  the  battered 
fragments  of  an  unfortunate  brig  or  schooner 
that  had  been  loaded  with  apples,  and  finding 
fine  unpitiful  sport  in  rushing  into  the  spent 
waves  and  picking  up  the  red-cheeked  fruit 
from  the  frothy,  seething  foam. 

All  our  school-books  were  extravagantly  illus- 
trated with  drawings  of  every  kind  of  sailing- 
vessel,  and  every  boy  owned  some  sort  of  craft 
whittled  from  a  block  of  wood  and  trimmed 
with  infinite  pains,  —  sloops,  schooners,  brigs, 
and  full-rigged  ships,  with  their  sails  and  string 
ropes  properly  adjusted  and  named  for  us  by 
some  old  sailor.  These  precious  toy  craft  with 
lead  keels  we  learned  to  sail  on  a  pond  near  the 
town.  With  the  sails  set  at  the  proper  angle  to 
the  wind,  they  made  fast  straight  voyages 
across  the  pond  to  boys  on  the  other  side,  who 
readjusted  the  sails  and  started  them  back  on 
the  return  voyages.  Oftentimes  fleets  of  half  a 
I  391 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

dozen  or  more  were  started  together  in  excit- 
ing races. 

Our  most  exciting  sport,  however,  was  play- 
ing with  gunpowder.  We  made  guns  out  of 
gas-pipe,  mounted  them  on  sticks  of  any  shape, 
clubbed  our  pennies  together  for  powder, 
gleaned  pieces  of  lead  here  and  there  and  cut 
them  into  slugs,  and,  while  one  aimed,  another 
applied  a  match  to  the  touch-hole.  With  these 
awful  weapons  we  wandered  along  the  beach 
and  fired"  at  the  gulls  and  solan-geese  as  they 
passed  us.  Fortunately  we  never  hurt  any  of 
them  that  we  knew  of.  We  also  dug  holes  in  the 
ground,  put  in  a  handful  or  two  of  powder, 
tamped  it  well  around  a  fuse  made  of  a  wheat- 
stalk,  and,  reaching  cautiously  forward,  touched 
a  match  to  the  straw.  This  we  called  making 
earthquakes.  Oftentimes  we  went  home  with 
singed  hair  and  faces  well  peppered  with  pow- 
der-grains that  could  not  be  washed  out.  Then, 
of  course,  came  a  correspondingly  severe  punish- 
ment from  both  father  and  teacher. 

Another  favorite  sport  was  climbing  trees 
[  40  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

and  scaling  garden-walls.  Boys  eight  or  ten 
years  of  age  could  get  over  almost  any  wall 
by  standing  on  each  other's  shoulders,  thus 
making  living  ladders.  To  make  walls  secure 
against  marauders,  many  of  them  were  finished 
on  top  with  broken  bottles  imbedded  in  lime, 
leaving  the  cutting  edges  sticking  up ;  but  with 
bunches  of  grass  and  weeds  we  could  sit  or 
stand  in  comfort  on  top  of  the  jaggedest  of  them. 
Like  squirrels  that  begin  to  eat  nuts  before 
they  are  ripe,  we  began  to  eat  apples  about 
as  soon  as  they  were  formed,  causing,  of  course, 
desperate  gastric  disturbances  to  be  cured  by 
castor  oil.  Serious  were  the  risks  we  ran  in 
climbing  and  squeezing  through  hedges,  and, 
of  course,  among  the  country  folk  we  were  far 
from  welcome.  Farmers  passing  us  on  the  roads 
often  shouted  by  way  of  greeting:  "Oh,  you 
vagabonds!  Back  to  the  toon  wi5  ye.  Gang 
back  where  ye  belang.  You're  up  to  mischief, 
Ise  warrant.  I  can  see  it.  The  gamekeeper '11 
catch  ye,  and  maist  like  ye  '11  a'  be  hanged  some 
day." 

[  4i  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

Breakfast  in  those  auld-lang-syne  days  was 
simple  oatmeal  porridge,  usually  with  a  little 
milk  or  treacle,  served  in  wooden  dishes  called 
"luggies,"  formed  of  staves  hooped  together 
like  miniature  tubs  about  four  or  five  inches  in 
diameter.  One  of  the  staves,  the  lug  or  ear,  a 
few  inches  longer  than  the  others,  served  as  a 
handle,  while  the  number  of  luggies  ranged  in 
a  row  on  a  dresser  indicated  the  size  of  the  fam- 
ily. We  never  dreamed  of  anything  to  come 
after  the  porridge,  or  of  asking  for  more.  Our 
portions  were  consumed  in  about  a  couple  of 
minutes;  then  off  to  school.  At  noon  we  came 
racing  home  ravenously  hungry.  The  midday 
meal,  called  dinner,  was  usually  vegetable 
broth,  a  small  piece  of  boiled  mutton,  and 
barley-meal  scone.  None  of  us  liked  the  barley 
scone  bread,  therefore  we  got  all  we  wanted 
of  it,  and  in  desperation  had  to  eat  it,  for  we 
were  always  hungry,  about  as  hungry  after  as 
before  meals.  The  evening  meal  was  called 
"tea"  and  was  served  on  our  return  from 
school.  It  consisted,  as  far  as  we  children  were 
[  42  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

concerned,  of  half  a  slice  of  white  bread  without 
butter,  barley  scone,  and  warm  water  with  a 
little  milk  and  sugar  in  it,  a  beverage  called 
"content,"  which  warmed  but  neither  cheered 
nor  inebriated.  Immediately  after  tea  we  ran 
across  the  street  with  our  books  to  Grandfather 
Gilrye,  who  took  pleasure  in  seeing  us  and  hear- 
ing us  recite  our  next  day's  lessons.  Then  back 
home  to  supper,  usually  a  boiled  potato  and 
piece  of  barley  scone.  Then  family  worship, 
and  to  bed. 

Our  amusements  on  Saturday  afternoons 
and  vacations  depended  mostly  on  getting 
away  from  home  into  the  country,  especially 
in  the  spring  when  the  birds  were  calling 
loudest.  Father  sternly  forbade  David  and  me 
from  playing  truant  in  the  fields  with  plunder- 
ing wanderers  like  ourselves,  fearing  we  might 
go  on  from  bad  to  worse,  get  hurt  in  climbing 
over  walls,  caught  by  gamekeepers,  or  lost  by 
falling  over  a  cliff  into  the  sea.  "  Play  as  much 
as  you  like  in  the  back  yard  and  garden,"  he 
said,  "and  mind  what  you'll  get  when  you 
[  431 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

forget  and  disobey."  Thus  he  warned  us  with 
an  awfully  stern  countenance,  looking  very 
hard-hearted,  while  naturally  his  heart  was 
far  from  hard,  though  he  devoutly  believed  in 
eternal  punishment  for  bad  boys  both  here 
and  hereafter.  Nevertheless,  like  devout  mar- 
tyrs of  wildness,  we  stole  away  to  the  seashore 
or  the  green,  sunny  fields  with  almost  religious 
regularity,  taking  advantage  of  opportunities 
when  father  was  very  busy,  to  join  our  com- 
panions, oftenest  to  hear  the  birds  sing  and 
hunt  their  nests,  glorying  in  the  number  we 
had  discovered  and  called  our  own.  A  sample 
of  our  nest  chatter  was  something  like  this: 
Willie  Chisholm  would  proudly  exclaim — "I 
ken  (know)  seventeen  nests,  and  you,  Johnnie, 
ken  only  fifteen." 

"But  I  wouldna  gie  my  fifteen  for  your  sev- 
enteen, for  five  of  mine  are  larks  and  mavises. 
You  ken  only  three  o'  the  best  singers." 

"Yes,  Johnnie,  but  I  ken  six  goldies  and  you 
ken  only  one.  Maist  of  yours  are  only  sparrows 
and  linties  and  robin-redbreasts." 
[  44  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

Then  perhaps  Bob  Richardson  would  loudly 
declare  that  he  "kenned  mair  nests  than  ony- 
body,  for  he  kenned  twenty-three,  with  about 
fifty  eggs  in  them  and  mair  than  fifty  young 
birds  —  maybe  a  hundred.  Some  of  them 
naething  but  raw  gorblings  but  lots  of  them  as 
big  as  their  mithers  and  ready  to  flee.  And 
aboot  fifty  craw's  nests  and  three  fox  dens." 

"Oh,  yes,  Bob,  but  that's  no  fair,  for  nae- 
body  counts  craw's  nests  and  fox  holes,  and 
then  you  live  in  the  country  at  Belle-haven 
where  ye  have  the  best  chance." 

"Yes,  but  I  ken  a  lot  of  bumbee's  nests, 
baith  the  red-legged  and  the  yellow-legged 
kind." 

"Oh,  wha  cares  for  bumbee's  nests!" 

"Weel,  but  here's  something!  Ma  father  let 
me  gang  to  a  fox  hunt,  and  man,  it  was  grand 
to  see  the  hounds  and  the  lang-legged  horses 
lowpin  the  dykes  and  burns  and  hedges!" 

The  nests,  I  fear,  with  the  beautiful  eggs  and 
young  birds,  were  prized  quite  as  highly  as  the 
songs  of  the  glad  parents,  but  no  Scotch  boy 
[  45  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

that  I  know  of  ever  failed  to  listen  with  enthu- 
siasm to  the  songs  of  the  skylarks.  Oftentimes 
on  a  broad  meadow  near  Dunbar  we  stood  for 
hours  enjoying  their  marvelous  singing  and 
soaring.  From  the  grass  where  the  nest  was 
hidden  the  male  would  suddenly  rise,  as  straight 
as  if  shot  up,  to  a  height  of  perhaps  thirty  or 
forty  feet,  and,  sustaining  himself  with  rapid 
wing-beats,  pour  down  the  most  delicious 
melody,  sweet  and  clear  and  strong,  overflow- 
ing all  bounds,  then  suddenly  he  would  soar 
higher  again  and  again,  ever  higher  and  higher, 
soaring  and  singing  until  lost  to  sight  even  on 
perfectly  clear  days,  and  oftentimes  in  cloudy 
weather  "far  in  the  downy  cloud,"  as  the  poet 
says. 

To  test  our  eyes  we  often  watched  a  lark 
until  he  seemed  a  faint  speck  in  the  sky  and 
finally  passed  beyond  the  keenest-sighted  of 
us  all.  "I  see  him  yet!"  we  would  cry,  "I  see 
him  yet!"  "I  see  him  yet!"  "I  see  him  yet!" 
as  he  soared.  And  finally  only  one  of  us  would 
be  left  to  claim  that  he  still  saw  him.  At  last 
[  46  ] 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

he,  too,  would  have  to  admit  that  the  singer 
had  soared  beyond  his  sight,  and  still  the  music 
came  pouring  down  to  us  in  glorious  profusion, 
from  a  height  far  above  our  vision,  requiring 
marvelous  power  of  wing  and  marvelous  power 
of  voice,  for  that  rich,  delicious,  soft,  and  yet 
clear  music  was  distinctly  heard  long  after  the 
bird  was  out  of  sight.  Then,  suddenly  ceasing, 
the  glorious  singer  would  appear,  falling  like  a 
bolt  straight  down  to  his  nest,  where  his  mate 
was  sitting  on  the  eggs. 

It  was  far  too  common  a  practice  among  us 
to  carry  off  a  young  lark  just  before  it  could 
fly,  place  it  in  a  cage,  and  fondly,  laboriously 
feed  it.  Sometimes  we  succeeded  in  keeping 
one  alive  for  a  year  or  two,  and  when  awakened 
by  the  spring  weather  it  was  pitiful  to  see  the 
quivering  imprisoned  soarer  of  the  heavens 
rapidly  beating  its  wings  and  singing  as  though 
it  were  flying  and  hovering  in  the  air  like  its 
parents.  To  keep  it  in  health  we  were  taught 
that  we  must  supply  it  with  a  sod  of  grass  the 
size  of  the  bottom  of  the  cage,  to  make  the 
[  47  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

poor  bird  feel  as  though  it  were  at  home  on  its 
native  meadow,  —  a  meadow  perhaps  a  foot 
or  at  most  two  feet  square.  Again  and  again 
it  would  try  to  hover  over  that  miniature 
meadow  from  its  miniature  sky  just  under- 
neath the  top  of  the  cage.  At  last,  conscience- 
stricken,  we  carried  the  beloved  prisoner  to 
the  meadow  west  of  Dunbar  where  it  was  born, 
and,  blessing  its  sweet  heart,  bravely  set  it 
free,  and  our  exceeding  great  reward  was  to  see 
it  fly  and  sing  in  the  sky. 

In  the  winter,  when  there  was  but  little  doing 
in  the  fields,  we  organized  running-matches. 
A  dozen  or  so  of  us  would  start  out  on  races 
that  were  simply  tests  of  endurance,  running 
on  and  on  along  a  public  road  over  the  breezy 
hills  like  hounds,  without  stopping  or  getting 
tired.  The  only  serious  trouble  we  ever  felt  in 
these  long  races  was  an  occasional  stitch  in  our 
sides.  One  of  the  boys  started  the  story  that 
sucking  raw  eggs  was  a  sure  cure  for  the 
stitches.  We  had  hens  in  our  back  yard,  and 
on  the  next  Saturday  we  managed  to  swallow 
[  48  1 


A  Boyhood  in  Scotland 

a  couple  of  eggs  apiece,  a  disgusting  job,  but 
we  would  do  almost  anything  to  mend  our 
speed,  and  as  soon  as  we  could  get  away  after 
taking  the  cure  we  set  out  on  a  ten  or  twenty 
mile  run  to  prove  its  worth.  We  thought 
nothing  of  running  right  ahead  ten  or  a  dozen 
miles  before  turning  back;  for  we  knew  nothing 
about  taking  time  by  the  sun,  and  none  of  us 
had  a  watch  in  those  days.  Indeed,  we  never 
cared  about  time  until  it  began  to  get  dark. 
Then  we  thought  of  home  and  the  thrashing 
that  awaited  us.  Late  or  early,  the  thrashing 
was  sure,  unless  father  happened  to  be  away. 
If  he  was  expected  to  return  soon,  mother  made 
haste  to  get  us  to  bed  before  his  arrival.  We 
escaped  the  thrashing  next  morning,  for  father 
never  felt  like  thrashing  us  in  cold  blood  on  the 
calm  holy  Sabbath.  But  no  punishment,  how- 
ever sure  and  severe,  was  of  any  avail  against 
the  attraction  of  the  fields  and  woods.  It  had 
other  uses,  developing  memory,  etc.,  but  in 
keeping  us  at  home  it  was  of  no  use  at  all. 
Wildness  was  ever  sounding  in  our  ears,  and 
[  49  J 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

Nature  saw  to  it  that  besides  school  lessons  and 
church  lessons  some  of  her  own  lessons  should 
be  learned,  perhaps  with  a  view  to  the  time 
when  we  should  be  called  to  wander  in  wildness 
to  our  heart's  content.  Oh,  the  blessed  en- 
chantment of  those  Saturday  runaways  in  the 
prime  of  the  spring !  How  our  young  wondering 
eyes  reveled  in  the  sunny,  breezy  glory  of  the 
hills  and  the  sky,  every  particle  of  us  thrilling 
and  tingling  with  the  bees  and  glad  birds  and 
glad  streams!  Kings  may  be  blessed ;  we  were 
glorious,  we  were  free,  —  school  cares  and 
scoldings,  heart  thrashings  and  flesh  thrashings 
alike,  were  forgotten  in  the  fullness  of  Nature's 
glad  wildness.  These  were  my  first  excursions, 
—  the  beginnings  of  lifelong  wanderings. 


II 

V 

A  NEW  WORLD 

Stories  of  America  —  Glorious  News  —  Crossing  the  At- 
lantic —  The  New  Home  —  A  Baptism  in  Nature  —  New 
Birds  —  The  Adventures  of  Watch  —  Scotch  Correction  — 
Marauding  Indians. 

OUR  grammar-school  reader,  called,  I 
think,  "Maccoulough's  Course  of 
Reading,"  contained  a  few  natural- 
history  sketches  that  excited  me  very  much 
and  left  a  deep  impression,  especially  a  fine 
description  of  the  fish  hawk  and  the  bald  eagle 
by  the  Scotch  ornithologist  Wilson,  who  had 
the  good  fortune  to  wander  for  years  in  the 
American  woods  while  the  country  was  yet 
mostly  wild.  I  read  his  description  over  and 
over  again,  till  I  got  the  vivid  picture  he  drew 
by  heart,  —  the  long-winged  hawk  circling 
over  the  heaving  waves,  every  motion  watched 
by  the  eagle  perched  on  the  top  of  a  crag  or 
dead  tree ;  the  fish  hawk  poising  for  a  moment 


i 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

to  take  aim  at  a  fish  and  plunging  under 
the  water;  the  eagle  with  kindling  eye  spread- 
ing his  wings  ready  for  instant  flight  in  case 
the  attack  should  prove  successful;  the  hawk 
emerging  with  a  struggling  fish  in  his  talons, 
and  proud  flight;  the  eagle  launching  himself 
in  pursuit;  the  wonderful  wing-work  in  the  sky, 
the  fish  hawk,  though  encumbered  with  his 
prey,  circling  higher,  higher,  striving  hard  to 
keep  above  the  robber  eagle;  the  eagle  at  length 
soaring  above  him,  compelling  him  with  a  cry 
of  despair  to  drop  his  hard-won  prey;  then  the 
eagle  steadying  himself  for  a  moment  to  take 
aim,  descending  swift  as  a  lightning-bolt,  and 
seizing  the  falling  fish  before  it  reached  the  sea. 
Not  less  exciting  and  memorable  was  Audu- 
bon's  wonderful  story  of  the  passenger  pigeon, 
a  beautiful  bird  flying  in  vast  flocks  that  dark- 
ened the  sky  like  clouds,  countless  millions 
assembling  to  rest  and  sleep  and  rear  their 
young  in  certain  forests,  miles  in  length  and 
breadth,  fifty  or  a  hundred  nests  on  a  single 
tree;  the  overloaded  branches  bending  low  and 
[  52  1 


A  New  World 

often  breaking;  the  farmers  gathering  from  far 
and  near,  beating  down  countless  thousands  of 
the  young  and  old  birds  from  their  nests  and 
roosts  with  long  poles  at  night,  and  in  the 
morning  driving  their  bands  of  hogs,  some  of 
them  brought  from  farms  a  hundred  miles 
distant,  to  fatten  on  the  dead  and  wounded 
covering  the  ground. 

In  another  of  our  reading-lessons  some  of  the 
American  forests  were  described.  The  most 
interesting  of  the  trees  to  us  boys  was  the  sugar 
maple,  and  soon  after  we  had  learned  this  sweet 
story  we  heard  everybody  talking  about  the 
discovery  of  gold  in  the  same  wonder-filled 
country. 

One  night,  when  David  and  I  were  at  grand- 
father's fireside  solemnly  learning  our  lessons 
as  usual,  my  father  came  in  with  news,  the 
most  wonderful,  most  glorious,  that  wild  boys 
ever  heard.  "Bairns,"  he  said,  "you  needna 
learn  your  lessons  the  nicht,  for  we're  gan  to 
America  the  morn!"  No  more  grammar,  but 
boundless  woods  full  of  mysterious  good  things ; 
[  53  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

trees  full  of  sugar,  growing  in  ground  full  of 
gold;  hawks,  eagles,  pigeons,  rilling  the  sky; 
millions  of  birds'  nests,  and  no  gamekeepers  to 
stop  us  in  all  the  wild,  happy  land.  We  were 
utterly,  blindly  glorious.  After  father  left  the 
room,  grandfather  gave  David  and  me  a  gold 
coin  apiece  for  a  keepsake,  and  looked  very 
serious,  for  he  was  about  to  be  deserted  in  his 
lonely  old  age.  And  when  we  in  fullness  of 
young  joy  spoke  of  what  we  were  going  to  do, 
of  the  wonderful  birds  and  their  nests  that 
we  should  find,  the  sugar  and  gold,  etc.,  and 
promised  to  send  him  a  big  box  full  of  that  tree 
sugar  packed  in  gold  from  the  glorious  paradise 
over  the  sea,  poor  lonely  grandfather,  about  to 
be  forsaken,  looked  with  downcast  eyes  on  the 
floor  and  said  in  a  low,  trembling,  troubled 
voice,  "Ah,  poor  laddies,  poor  laddies,  you'll 
find  something  else  ower  the  sea  forbye  gold 
and  sugar,  birds'  nests  and  freedom  fra  lessons 
and  schools.  You'll  find  plenty  hard,  hard 
work."  And  so  we  did.  But  nothing  he  could 
say  could  cloud  our  joy  or  abate  the  fire  of 
I  54l 


A  New  World 

youthful,  hopeful,  fearless  adventure.  Nor 
could  we  in  the  midst, of  such  measureless 
excitement  see  or  feel  the  shadows  and  sorrows 
of  his  darkening  old  age.  To  my  schoolmates, 
met  that  night  on  the  street,  I  shouted  the 
glorious  news,  "I'm  gan  to  Amaraka  the 
morn!"  None  could  believe  it.  I  said,  "Weel, 
just  you  see  if  I  am  at  the  skule  the  morn!" 

Next  morning  we  went  by  rail  to  Glasgow 
and  thence  joyfully  sailed  away  from  beloved 
Scotland,  flying  to  our  fortunes  on  the  wings  of 
the  winds,  care-free  as  thistle  seeds.  We  could 
not  then  know  what  we  were  leaving,  what  we 
were  to  encounter  in  the  New  World,  nor  what 
our  gains  were  likely  to  be.  We  were  too  young 
and  full  of  hope  for  fear  or  regret,  but  not  too 
young  to  look  forward  with  eager  enthusiasm 
to  the  wonderful  schoolless  bookless  American 
wilderness.-  Even  the  natural  heart-pain  of 
parting  from  grandfather  and  grandmother 
Gilrye,  who  loved  us  so  well,  and  from  mother 
and  sisters  and  brother  was  quickly  quenched 
in  young  joy.  Father  took  with  him  only 
I  55  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

my  sister  Sarah  (thirteen  years  of  age),  myself 
(eleven),  and  brother  David  (nine),  leaving  my 
eldest  sister,  Margaret,  and  the  three  youngest 
of  the  family,  Daniel,  Mary,  and  Anna,  with 
mother,  to  join  us  after  a  farm  had  been  found 
in  the  wilderness  and  a  comfortable  house  made 
to  receive  them. 

In  crossing  the  Atlantic  before  the  days  of 
steamships,  or  even  the  American  clippers,  the 
voyages  made  in  old-fashioned  sailing-vessels 
were  very  long.  Ours  was  six  weeks  and  three 
days.  But  because  we  had  no  lessons  to  get, 
that  long  voyage  had  not  a  dull  moment  for  us 
boys.  Father  and  sister  Sarah,  with  most  of 
the  old  folk,  stayed  below  in  rough  weather, 
groaning  in  the  miseries  of  seasickness,  many 
of  the  passengers  wishing  they  had  never  ven- 
tured in  "the  auld  rockin'creel,"  as  they  called 
our  bluff-bowed,  wave-beating  ship,  and,  when 
the  weather  was  moderately  calm,  singing  songs 
in  the  evenings,  —  "The  Youthful  Sailor  Frank 
and  Bold,"  "Oh,  why  left  I  my  hame,  why  did 
I  cross  the  deep,"  etc.  But  no  matter  how 
[  56  1 


A  New  World 

much  the  old  tub  tossed  about  and  battered 
the  waves,  we  were  on  deck  every  day,  not  in 
the  least  seasick,  watching  the  sailors  at  their 
rope-hauling  and  climbing  work;  joining  in 
their  songs,  learning  the  names  of  the  ropes 
and  sails,  and  helping  them  as  far  as  they  would 
let  us;  playing  games  with  other  boys  in  calm 
weather  when  the  deck  was  dry,  and  in  stormy 
weather  rejoicing  in  sympathy  with  the  big 
curly-topped  waves. 

The  captain  occasionally  called  David  and 
me  into  his  cabin  and  asked  us  about  our 
schools,  handed  us  books  to  read,  and  seemed 
surprised  to  find  that  Scotch  boys  could  read 
and  pronounce  English  with  perfect  accent 
and  knew  so  much  Latin  and  French.  In  Scotch 
schools  only  pure  English  was  taught,  although 
not  a  word  of  English  was  spoken  out  of  school. 
All  through  life,  however  well  educated,  the 
Scotch  spoke  Scotch  among  their  own  folk, 
except  at  times  when  unduly  excited  on  the 
only  two  subjects  on  which  Scotchmen  get  much 
excited,  namely  religion  and  politics.  So  long 

[  57] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

as  the  controversy  went  on  with  fairly  level 
temper,  only  gude  braid  Scots  was  used,  but  if 
one  became  angry,  as  was  likely  to  happen, 
then  he  immediately  began  speaking  severely 
correct  English,  while  his  antagonist,  drawing 
himself  up,  would  say:  "Weel,  there's  na  use 
pursuing  this  subject  ony  further,  for  I  see  ye 
hae  gotten  to  your  English." 

As  we  neared  the  shore  of  the  great  new  land, 
with  what  eager  wonder  we  watched  the  whales 
and  dolphins  and  porpoises  and  seabirds,  and 
made  the  good-natured  sailors  teach  us  their 
names  and  tell  us  stories  about  them! 

There  were  quite  a  large  number  of  emigrants 
aboard,  many  of  them  newly  married  couples, 
and  the  advantages  of  the  different  parts  of 
the  New  World  they  expected  to  settle  in  were 
often  discussed.  My  father  started  with  the 
intention  of  going  to  the  backwoods  of  Upper 
Canada.  Before  the  end  of  the  voyage,  how- 
ever, he  was  persuaded  that  the  States  offered 
superior  advantages,  especially  Wisconsin  and 
Michigan,  where  the  land  was  said  to  be  as 
[  58  1 


A  New  World 

good  as  in  Canada  and  far  more  easily  brought 
under  cultivation;  for  in  Canada  the  woods 
were  so  close  and  heavy  that  a  man  might  wear 
out  his  life  in  getting  a  few  acres  cleared  of  trees 
and  stumps.  So  he  changed  his  mind  and  con- 
cluded to  go  to  one  of  the  Western  States. 

On  our  wavering  westward  way  a  grain- 
dealer  in  Buffalo  told  father  that  most  of  the 
wheat  he  handled  came  from  Wisconsin;  and 
this  influential  information  finally  determined 
my  father's  choice.  At  Milwaukee  a  farmer 
who  had  come  in  from  the  country  near  Fort 
Winnebago  with  a  load  of  wheat  agreed  to  haul 
us  and  our  formidable  load  of  stuff  to  a  little 
town  called  Kingston  for  thirty  dollars.  On 
that  hundred-mile  journey,  just  after  the  spring 
thaw,  the  roads  over  the  prairies  were  heavy 
and  miry,  causing  no  end  of  lamentation,  for  we 
often  got  stuck  in  the  mud,  and  the  poor  farmer 
sadly  declared  that  never,  never  again  would 
he  be  tempted  to  try  to  haul  such  a  cruel, 
heart-breaking,  wagon-breaking,  horse-killing 
load,  no,  not  for  a  hundred  dollars.  In  leaving 
[  59] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

Scotland,  father,  like  many  other  home- 
seekers,  burdened  himself  with  far  too  much 
luggage,  as  if  all  America  were  still  a  wilderness 
in  which  little  or  nothing  could  be  bought.  One 
of  his  big  iron-bound  boxes  must  have  weighed 
about  four  hundred  pounds,  for  it  contained  an 
old-fashioned  beam-scales  with  a  complete  set 
of  cast-iron  counterweights,  two  of  them  fifty- 
six  pounds  each,  a  twenty-eight,  and  so  on  down 
to  a  single  pound.  Also  a  lot  of  iron  wedges, 
carpenter's  tools,  and  so  forth,  and  at  Buf- 
falo, as  if  on  the  very  edge  of  the  wilderness, 
he  gladly  added  to  his  burden  a  big  cast-iron 
stove  with  pots  and  pans,  provisions  enough 
for  a  long  siege,  and  a  scythe  and  cumbersome 
cradle  for  cutting  wheat,  all  of  which  he  suc- 
ceeded in  landing  in  the  primeval  Wisconsin 
woods. 

A  land-agent  at  Kingston  gave  father  a 
note  to  a  farmer  by  the  name  of  Alexander 
Gray,  who  lived  on  the  border  of  the  settled 
part  of  the  country,  knew  the  section-lines, 
and  would  probably  help  him  to  find  a  good 
[  60  ] 


A  New  World 

place  for  a  farm.  So  father  went  away  to  spy 
out  the  land,  and  in  the  mean  time  left  us  child- 
ren in  Kingston  in  a  rented  room.  It  took  us 
less  than  an  hour  to  get  acquainted  with  some 
of  the  boys  in  the  village;  we  challenged  them 
to  wrestle,  run  races,  climb  trees,  etc.,  and  in  a 
day  or  two  we  felt  at  home,  carefree  and  happy, 
notwithstanding  our  family  was  so  widely 
divided.  When  father  returned  he  told  us  that 
he  had  found  fine  land  for  a  farm  in  sunny 
open  woods  on  the  side  of  a  lake,  and  that  a 
team  of  three  yoke  of  oxen  with  a  big  wagon 
was  coming  to  haul  us  to  Mr.  Gray's  place. 

We  enjoyed  the  strange  ten-mile  ride  through 
the  woods  very  much,  wondering  how  the 
great  oxen  could  be  so  strong  and  wise  and  tame 
as  to  pull  so  heavy  a  load  with  no  other  harness 
than  a  chain  and  a  crooked  piece  of  wood  on 
their  necks,  and  how  they  could  sway  so  obedi- 
ently to  right  and  left  past  roadside  trees  and 
stumps  when  the  driver  said  haw  and  gee.  At 
Mr.  Gray's  house,  father  again  left  us  for  a 
few  days  to  build  a  shanty  on  the  quarter- 
[  61  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

section  he  had  selected  four  or  five  miles  to  the 
westward.  In  the  mean  while  we  enjoyed  our 
freedom  as  usual,  wandering  in  the  fields  and 
meadows,  looking  at  the  trees  and  flowers, 
snakes  and  birds  and  squirrels.  With  the  help 
of  the  nearest  neighbors  the  little  shanty  was 
built  in  less  than  a  day  after  the  rough  bur-oak 
logs  for  the  walls  and  the  white-oak  boards  for 
the  floor  and  roof  were  got  together. 

To  this  charming  hut,  in  the  sunny  woods, 
overlooking  a  flowery  glacier  meadow  and  a 
lake  rimmed  with  white  water-lilies,  we  were 
hauled  by  an  ox-team  across  trackless  carex 
swamps  and  low  rolling  hills  sparsely  dotted 
with  round-headed  oaks.  Just  as  we  arrived 
at  the  shanty,  before  we  had  time  to  look  at  it 
or  the  scenery  about  it,  David  and  I  jumped 
down  in  a  hurry  off  the  load  of  household  goods, 
for  we  had  discovered  a  blue  jay's  nest,  and  in 
a  minute  or  so  we  were  up  the  tree  beside  it, 
feasting  our  eyes  on  the  beautiful  green  eggs 
and  beautiful  birds,  —  our  first  memorable 
discovery.  The  handsome  birds  had  not  seen 
[  62  ] 


A  New  World 

Scotch  boys  before  and  made  a  desperate 
screaming  as  if  we  were  robbers  like  themselves; 
though  we  left  the  eggs  untouched,  feeling  that 
we  were  already  beginning  to  get  rich,  and 
wondering  how  many  more  nests  we  should  find 
in  the  grand  sunny  woods.  Then  we  ran  along 
the  brow  of  the  hill  that  the  shanty  stood  on, 
and  down  to  the  meadow,  searching  the  trees 
and  grass  tufts  and  bushes,  and  soon  discovered 
a  bluebird's  and  a  woodpecker's  nest,  and  be- 
gan an  acquaintance  with  the  frogs  and  snakes 
and  turtles  in  the  creeks  and  springs. 

This  sudden  plash  into  pure  wildness  — 
baptism  in  Nature's  warm  heart  —  how  utterly 
happy  it  made  us!  Nature  streaming  into 
us,  wooingly  teaching  her  wonderful  glowing 
lessons,  so  unlike  the  dismal  grammar  ashes 
and  cinders  so  long  thrashed  into  us.  Here 
without  knowing  it  we  still  were  at  school; 
every  wild  lesson  a  love  lesson,  not  whipped  but 
charmed  into  us.  Oh,  that  glorious  Wisconsin 
wilderness!  Everything  new  and  pure  in  the 
very  prime  of  the  spring  when  Nature's  pulses 
[  63  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

were  beating  highest  and  mysteriously  keeping 
time  with  our  own !  Young  hearts,  young  leaves, 
flowers,  animals,  the  winds  and  the  streams  and 
the  sparkling  lake,  all  wildly,  gladly  rejoicing 
together! 

Next  morning,  when  we  climbed  to  the  pre- 
cious jay  nest  to  take  another  admiring  look 
at  the  eggs,  we  found  it  empty.  Not  a  shell- 
fragment  was  left,  and  we  wondered  how  in 
the  world  the  birds  were  able  to  carry  off  their 
thin-shelled  eggs  either  in  their  bills  or  in  their 
feet  without  breaking  them,  and  how  they  could 
be  kept  warm  while  a  new  nest  was  being  built. 
Well,  I  am  still  asking  these  questions.  When 
I  was  on  the  Harriman  Expedition  I  asked 
Robert  Ridgway,  the  eminent  ornithologist, 
how  these  sudden  Sittings  were  accomplished, 
and  he  frankly  confessed  that  he  did  n't  know, 
but  guessed  that  jays  and  many  other  birds 
carried  their  eggs  in  their  mouths;  and  when  I 
objected  that  a  jay's  mouth  seemed  too  small 
to  hold  its  eggs,  he  replied  that  birds'  mouths 
were  larger  than  the  narrowness  of  their  bills 
[  64  ] 


A  New  World 

indicated.  Then  I  asked  him  what  he  thought 
they  did  with  the  eggs  while  a  new  nest  was 
being  prepared.  He  did  n't  know;  neither  do  I 
to  this  day.  A  specimen  of  the  many  puzzling 
problems  presented  to  the  naturalist.  J 

We  soon  found  many  more  nests  belonging 
to  birds  that  were  not  half  so  suspicious.  The 
handsome  and  notorious  blue  jay  plunders  the 
nests  of  other  birds  and  of  course  he  could 
not  trust  us.  Almost  all  the  others  —  brown 
thrushes,  bluebirds,  song  sparrows,  kingbirds, 
hen-hawks,  nighthawks,  whip-poor-wills,  wood- 
peckers, etc.  —  simply  tried  to  avoid  being 
seen,  to  draw  or  drive  us  away,  or  paid  no 
attention  to  us. 

We  used  to  wonder  how  the  woodpeckers 
could  bore  holes  so  perfectly  round,  true  mathe- 
matical circles.  We  ourselves  could  not  have 
done  it  even  with  gouges  and  chisels.  We  loved 
to  watch  them  feeding  their  young,  and  won- 
dered how  they  could  glean  food  enough  for  so 
many  clamorous,  hungry,  unsatisfiable  babies, 
and  how  they  managed  to  give  each  one  its 
[  65  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

share;  for  after  the  young  grew  strong,  one 
would  get  his  head  out  of  the  door-hole  and  try 
to  hold  possession  of  it  to  meet  the  food-laden 
parents.  How  hard  they  worked  to  support  their 
families,  especially  the  red-headed  and  speckledy 
woodpeckers  and  flickers;  digging,  hammering 
on  scaly  bark  and  decaying  trunks  and  branches 
from  dawn  to  dark,  coming  arid  going  at  inter- 
vals of  a  few  minutes  all  the  livelong  day! 

We  discovered  a  hen-hawk's  nest  on  the  top 
of  a  tall  oak  thirty  or  forty  rods  from  the  shanty 
and  approached  it  cautiously.  One  of  the  pair 
always  kept  watch,  soaring  in  wide  circles  high 
above  the  tree,  and  when  we  attempted  to 
climb  it,  the  big  dangerous-looking  bird  came 
swooping  down  at  us  and  drove  us  away. 

We  greatly  admired  the  plucky  kingbird.  In 
Scotland  our  great  ambition  was  to  be  good 
fighters,  and  we  admired  this  quality  in  the 
handsome  little  chattering  flycatcher  that  whips 
all  the  other  birds.  He  was  particularly  angry 
when  plundering  jays  and  hawks  came  near 
his  home,  and  took  pains  to  thrash  them  not 
[  66  ] 


A  New  World 

only  away  from  the  nest-tree  but  out  of  the 
neighborhood.  The  nest  was  usually  built  on 
a  bur  oak  near  a  meadow  where  insects  were 
abundant,  and  where  no  undesirable  visitor 
could  approach  without  being  discovered. 
When  a  hen-hawk  hove  in  sight,  the  male 
immediately  set  off  after  him,  and  it  was  ridic- 
ulous to  see  that  great,  strong  bird  hurrying 
away  as  fast  as  his  clumsy  wings  would  carry 
him,  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  little,  waspish  king- 
bird coming.  But  the  kingbird  easily  overtook 
him,  flew  just  a  few  feet  above  him,  and  with 
a  lot  of  chattering,  scolding  notes  kept  diving 
and  striking  him  on  the  back  of  the  head  until 
tired;  then  he  alighted  to  rest  on  the  hawk's 
broad  shoulders,  still  scolding  and  chattering 
as  he  rode  along,  like  an  angry  boy  pouring  out 
vials  of  wrath.  Then,  up  and  at  him  again 
with  his  sharp  bill ;  and  after  he  had  thus  driven 
and  ridden  his  big  enemy  a  mile  or  so  from  the 
nest,  he  went  home  to  his  mate,  chuckling  and 
bragging  as  if  trying  to  tell  her  what  a  wonder- 
ful fellow  he  was. 

I  67  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

This  first  spring,  while  some  of  the  birds 
were  still  building  their  nests  and  very  few 
young  ones  had  yet  tried  to  fly,  father  hired 
a  Yankee  to  assist  in  clearing  eight  or  ten  acres 
of  the  best  ground  for  a  field.  We  found  new 
wonders  every  day  and  often  had  to  call  on 
this  Yankee  to  solve  puzzling  questions.  We 
asked  him  one  day  if  there  was  any  bird  in 
America  that  the  kingbird  could  n't  whip. 
What  about  the  sandhill  crane?  Could  he  whip 
that  long-legged,  long-billed  fellow? 

"A  crane  never  goes  near  kingbirds'  nests  or 
notices  so  small  a  bird,"  he  said,  "and  therefore 
there  could  be  no  fighting  between  them."  So 
we  hastily  concluded  that  our  hero  could  whip 
every  bird  in  the  country  except  perhaps  the 
sandhill  crane. 

We  never  tired  listening  to  the  wonderful 
whip-poor-will.  One  came  every  night  about 
dusk  and  sat  on  a  log  about  twenty  or  thirty 
feet  from  our  cabin  door  and  began  shouting 
"Whip  poor  Will!  Whip  poor  Will!"  with  loud 
emphatic  earnestness.  "What's  that?  What's 
[  68  ] 


A  New  World 

that  ? "  we  cried  when  this  startling  visitor  first 
announced  himself.  "What  do  you  call  it?" 

"Why,  it's  telling  you  its  name/'  said  the 
Yankee.  "Don't  you  hear  it  and  what  he 
wants  you  to  do?  He  says  his  name  is  'Poor 
WilF  and  he  wants  you  to  whip  him,  and  you 
may  if  you  are  able  to  catch  him."  Poor  Will 
seemed  the  most  wonderful  of  all  the  strange 
creatures  we  had  seen.  What  a  wild,  strong, 
bold  voice  he  had,  unlike  any  other  we  had  ever 
heard  on  sea  or  land ! 

A  near  relative,  the  bull-bat,  or  nighthawk, 
seemed  hardly  less  wonderful.  Towards  even- 
ing scattered  flocks  kept  the  sky  lively  as  they 
circled  around  on  their  long  wings  a  hundred 
feet  or  more  above  the  ground,  hunting  moths 
and  beetles,  interrupting  their  rather  slow  but 
strong,  regular  wing-beats  at  short  intervals 
with  quick  quivering  strokes  while  uttering 
keen,  squeaky  cries  something  like  pfee,  pfee, 
and  every  now  and  then  diving  nearly  to  the 
ground  with  a  loud  ripping,  bellowing  sound, 
like  bull-roaring,  suggesting  its  name ;  then  turn- 
[  69  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

ing  and  gliding  swiftly  up  again.  These  fine  wild 
gray  birds,  about  the  size  of  a  pigeon,  lay  their 
two  eggs  on  bare  ground  without  anything  like 
a  nest  or  even  a  concealing  bush  or  grass-tuft. 
Nevertheless  they  are  not  easily  seen,  for  they 
are  colored  like  the  ground.  While  sitting  on 
their  eggs,  they  depend  so  much  upon  not  being 
noticed  that  if  you  are  walking  rapidly  ahead 
they  allow  you  to  step  within  an  inch  or  two 
of  them  without  flinching.  But  if  they  see  by 
your  looks  that  you  have  discovered  them,  they 
leave  their  eggs  or  young,  and,  like  a  good 
many  other  birds,  pretend  that  they  are  sorely 
wounded,  fluttering  and  rolling  over  on  the 
ground  and  gasping  as  if  dying,  to  draw  you 
away.  When  pursued  we  were  surprised  to  find 
that  just  when  we  were  on  the  point  of  over- 
taking them  they  were  always  able  to  flutter 
a  few  yards  farther,  until  they  had  led  us  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  nest;  then,  sud- 
denly getting  well,  they  quietly  flew  home  by 
a  roundabout  way  to  their  precious  babies  or 
eggs,  o'er  a'  the  ills  of  life  victorious,  bad  boys 
[  70  1 


A  New  World 

among  the  worst.  The  Yankee  took  particular 
pleasure  in  encouraging  us  to  pursue  them. 

Everything  about  us  was  so  novel  and  won- 
derful that  we  could  hardly  believe  our  senses 
except  when  hungry  or  while  father  was  thrash- 
ing us.  When  we  first  saw  Fountain  Lake 
Meadow,  on  a  sultry  evening,  sprinkled  with 
millions  of  lightning-bugs  throbbing  with  light, 
the  effect  was  so  strange  and  beautiful  that  it 
seemed  far  too  marvelous  to  be  real.  Looking 
from  our  shanty  on  the  hill,  I  thought  that 
the  whole  wonderful  fairy  show  must  be  in  my 
eyes;  for  only  in  fighting,  when  my  eyes  were 
struck,  had  I  ever  seen  anything  in  the  least 
like  it.  But  when  I  asked  my  brother  if  he  saw 
anything  strange  in  the  meadow  he  said,  "  Yes, 
it's  all  covered  with  shaky  fire-sparks."  Then 
I  guessed  that  it  might  be  something  outside 
of  us,  and  applied  to  our  all-knowing  Yankee 
to  explain  it.  "Oh,  it's  nothing  but  lightnin'- 
bugs,"  he  said,  and  kindly  led  us  down  the  hill 
to  the  edge  of  the  fiery  meadow,  caught  a  few 
of  the  wonderful  bugs,  dropped  them  into  a 
I  7i  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

cup,  and  carried  them  to  the  shanty,  where  we 
watched  them  throbbing  and  flashing  out  their 
mysterious  light  at  regular  intervals,  as  if  each 
little  passionate  glow  were  caused  by  the  beat- 
ing of  a  heart.  Once  I  saw  a  splendid  display 
of  glow-worm  light  in  the  foothills  of  the  Him- 
alayas, north  of  Calcutta,  but  glorious  as  it 
appeared  in  pure  starry  radiance,  it  was  far 
less  impressive  than  the  extravagant  abound- 
ing, quivering,  dancing  fire  on  our  Wisconsin 
meadow. 

Partridge  drumming  was  another  great  mar- 
vel. When  I  first  heard  the  low,  soft,  solemn 
sound  I  thought  it  must  be  made  by  some 
strange  disturbance  in  my  head  or  stomach, 
but  as  all  seemed  serene  within,  I  asked  David 
whether  he  heard  anything  queer.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "I  hear  something  saying  boomp,  boomp, 
boomp,  and  I  'm  wondering  at  it."  Then  I  was 
half  satisfied  that  the  source  of  the  mysterious 
sound  must  be  in  something  outside  of  us,  com- 
ing perhaps  from  the  ground  or  from  some 
ghost  or  bogie  or  woodland  fairy.  Only  after 
[  72  ] 


A  New  World 

long  watching  and  listening  did  we  at  last 
discover  it  in  the  wings  of  the  plump  brown 
bird. 

The  love-song  of  the  common  jack  snipe 
seemed  not  a  whit  less  mysterious  than  par- 
tridge drumming.  It  was  usually  heard  on 
cloudy  evenings,  a  strange,  unearthly,  winnow- 
ing, spiritlike  sound,  yet  easily  heard  at  a  dis- 
tance of  a  third  of  a  mile.  Our  sharp  eyes  soon 
detected  the  bird  while  making  it,  as  it  circled 
high  in  the  air  over  the  meadow  with  wonder- 
fully strong  and  rapid  wing-beats,  suddenly 
descending  and  rising,  again  and  again,  in 
deep,  wide  loops ;  the  tones  being  very  low  and 
smooth  at  the  beginning  of  the  descent,  rapidly 
increasing  to  a  curious  little  whirling  storm- 
roar  at  the  bottom,  and  gradually  fading  lower 
and  lower  until  the  top  was  reached.  It  was 
long,  however,  before  we  identified  this  mysteri- 
ous wing-singer  as  the  little  brown  jack  snipe 
that  we  knew  so  well  and  had  so  often  watched 
as  he  silently  probed  the  mud  around  the  edges 
of  our  meadow  stream  and  spring-holes,  and 

[  73] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

made  short  zigzag  flights  over  the  grass  utter- 
ing only  little  short,  crisp  quacks  and  chucks. 

The  love-songs  of  the  frogs  seemed  hardly 
less  wonderful  than  those  of  the  birds,  their 
musical  notes  varying  from  the  sweet,  tranquil, 
soothing  peeping  and  purring  of  the  hylas  to  the 
awfully  deep  low-bass  blunt  bellowing  of  the 
bullfrogs.  Some  of  the  smaller  species  have 
wonderfully  clear,  sharp  voices  and  told  us 
their  good  Bible  names  in  musical  tones  about 
as  plainly  as  the  whip-poor-will.  Isaac,  Isaac  ; 
Yacob,  Yacob  ;  Israel,  Israel ;  shouted  in  sharp, 
ringing,  far-reaching  tones,  as  if  they  had  all 
been  to  school  and  severely  drilled  in  elocution. 
In  the  still,  warm  evenings,  big  bunchy  bull- 
frogs bellowed,  Drunk!  Drunk!  Drunk!  Jug  o* 
rum!  Jug  o9  rum!  and  early  in  the  spring,  count- 
less thousands  of  the  commonest  species,  up  to 
the  throat  in  cold  water,  sang  in  concert,  mak- 
ing a  mass  of  music,  such  as  it  was,  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  at  a  distance  of  more  than  half  a 
mile. 

Far,  far  apart  from  this  loud  marsh  music  is 
[  74  1 


A  New  World 

that  of  the  many  species  of  hyla,  a  sort  of 
soothing  immortal  melody  filling  the  air  like 
light. 

We  reveled  in  the  glory  of  the  sky  scenery  as 
well  as  that  of  the  woods  and  meadows  and 
rushy,  lily-bordered  lakes.  The  great  thunder- 
storms in  particular  interested  us,  so  unlike 
any  seen  in  Scotland,  exciting  awful,  wondering 
admiration.  Gazing  awe-stricken,  we  watched 
the  upbuilding  of  the  sublime  cloud-mountains, 
-glowing,  sun -beaten  pearl  and  alabaster 
cumuli,  glorious  in  beauty  and  majesty  and 
looking  so  firm  and  lasting  that  birds,  we 
thought,  might  build  their  nests  amid  their 
downy  bosses;  the  black-browed  storm-clouds 
marching  in  awful  grandeur  across  the  land- 
scape, trailing  broad  gray  sheets  of  hail  and 
rain  like  vast  cataracts,  and  ever  and  anon 
flashing  down  vivid  zigzag  lightning  followed 
by  terrible  crashing  thunder.  We  saw  several 
trees  shattered,  and  one  of  them,  a  punky  old 
oak,  was  set  on  fire,  while  we  wondered  why  all 
the  trees  and  everybody  and  everything  did 
[  75  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

not  share  the  same  fate,  for  oftentimes  the 
whole  sky  blazed.  After  sultry  storm  days, 
many  of  the  nights  were  darkened  by  smooth 
black  apparently  structureless  cloud-mantles 
which  at  short  intervals  were  illumined  with 
startling  suddenness  to  a  fiery  glow  by  quick, 
quivering  lightning-flashes,  revealing  the  land- 
scape in  almost  noonday  brightness,  to  be  in- 
stantly quenched  in  solid  blackness. 

But  those  first  days  and  weeks  of  unmixed 
enjoyment  and  freedom,  reveling  in  the  won- 
derful wildness  about  us,  were  soon  to  be  min- 
gled with  the  hard  work  of  making  a  farm.  I 
was  first  put  to  burning  brush  in  clearing  land 
for  the  plough.  Those  magnificent  brush  fires 
with  great  white  hearts  and  red  flames,  the 
first  big,  wild  outdoor  fires  I  had  ever  seen, 
were  wonderful  sights  for  young  eyes.  Again 
and  again,  when  they  were  burning  fiercest  so 
that  we  could  hardly  approach  near  enough  to 
throw  on  another  branch,  father  put  them  to 
awfully  practical  use  as  warning  lessons,  com- 
paring their  heat  with  that  of  hell,  and  the 
[  761 


A  New  World 

branches  with  bad  boys.  "Now,  John,"  he 
would  say,  -  "now,  John,  just  think  what  an 
awful  thing  it  would  be  to  be  thrown  into  that 
fire:  —  and  then  think  of  hellfire,  that  is  so 
many  times  hotter.  Into  that  fire  all  bad  boys, 
with  sinners  of  every  sort  who  disobey  God,  will 
be  cast  as  we  are  casting  branches  into  this 
brush  fire,  and  although  suffering  so  much, 
their  sufferings  will  never  never  end,  because 
neither  the  fire  nor  the  sinners  can  die."  But 
those  terrible  fire  lessons  quickly  faded  away 
in  the  blithe  wilderness  air;  for  no  fire  can  be 
hotter  than  the  heavenly  fire  of  faith  and  hope 
that  burns  in  every  healthy  boy's  heart. 

Soon  after  our  arrival  in  the  woods  some  one 
added  a  cat  and  puppy  to  the  animals  father 
had  bought.  The  cat  soon  had  kittens,  and  it 
was  interesting  to  watch  her  feeding,  protect- 
ing, and  training  them.  After  they  were  able 
to  leave  their  nest  and  play,  she  went  out  hunt- 
ing and  brought  in  many  kinds  of  birds  and 
squirrels  for  them,  mostly  ground  squirrels 
(spermophiles),  called  "gophers"  in  Wisconsin. 
[  77  J 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

When  she  got  within  a  dozen  yards  or  so  of 
the  shanty,  she  announced  her  approach  by  a 
peculiar  call,  and  the  sleeping  kittens  immedi- 
ately bounced  up  and  ran  to  meet  her,  all  racing 
for  the  first  bite  of  they  knew  not  what,  and  we 
too  ran  to  see  what  she  brought.  She  then  lay 
down  a  few  minutes  to  rest  and  enjoy  the  en- 
joyment of  her  feasting  family,  and  again  van- 
ished in  the  grass  and  flowers,  coming  and  going 
every  half-hour  or  so.  Sometimes  she  brought 
in  birds  that  we  had  never  seen  before,  and 
occasionally  a  flying  squirrel,  chipmunk,  or 
big  fox  squirrel.  We  were  just  old  enough, 
David  and  I,  to  regard  all  these  creatures  as 
wonders,  the  strange  inhabitants  of  our  new 
world. 

The  pup  was  a  common  cur,  though  very  un- 
common to  us,  a  black  and  white  short-haired 
mongrel  that  we  named  "Watch."  We  always 
gave  him  a  pan  of  milk  in  the  evening  just 
before  we  knelt  in  family  worship,  while  day- 
light still  lingered  in  the  shanty.  And,  instead 
of  attending  to  the  prayers,  I  too  often  studied 
[  78  1 


A  New  World 

the  small  wild  creatures  playing  around  us. 
Field  mice  scampered  about  the  cabin  as 
though  it  had  been  built  for  them  alone,  and 
their  performances  were  very  amusing.  About 
dusk,  on  one  of  the  calm,  sultry  nights  so  grate- 
ful to  moths  and  beetles,  when  the  puppy  was 
lapping  his  milk,  and  we  were  on  our  knees,  in 
through  the  door  came  a  heavy  broad-shoul- 
dered beetle  about  as  big  as  a  mouse,  and  after 
it  had  droned  and  boomed  round  the  cabin 
two  or  three  times,  the  pan  of  milk,  showing 
white  in  the  gloaming,  caught  its  eyes,  and,  tak- 
ing good  aim,  it  alighted  with  a  slanting,  glinting 
plash  in  the  middle  of  the  pan  like  a  duck 
alighting  in  a  lake.  Baby  Watch,  having  never 
before  seen  anything  like  that  beetle,  started 
back,  gazing  in  dumb  astonishment  and  fear 
at  the  black  sprawling  monster  trying  to  swim. 
Recovering  somewhat  from  his  fright,  he  began 
to  bark  at  the  creature,  and  ran  round  and  round 

t , 

his  milk-pan,  wouf-woufing,  gurring,  growling, 

like  an  old  dog  barking  at  a  wild-cat  or  a  bear. 

The  natural  astonishment  and  curiosity  of  that 

I  79  J 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

boy  dog  getting  his  first  entomological  lesson 
in  this  wonderful  world  was  so  immoderately 
funny  that  I  had  great  difficulty  in  keeping 
from  laughing  out  loud. 

Snapping  turtles  were  common  throughout 
the  woods,  and  we  were  delighted  to  find  that 
they  would  snap  at  a  stick  and  hang  on  like 
bull-dogs;  and  we  amused  ourselves  by  intro- 
ducing Watch  to  them,  enjoying  his  curious 
behavior  and  theirs  in  getting  acquainted  with 
each  other.  One  day  we  assisted  one  of  the 
smallest  of  the  turtles  to  get  a  good  grip  of  poor 
Watch's  ear.  Then  away  he  rushed,  holding 
his  head  sidewise,  yelping  and  terror-stricken, 
with  the  strange  buglike  reptile  biting  hard  and 
clinging  fast,  —  a  shameful  amusement  even  for 
wild  boys. 

As  a  playmate  Watch  was  too  serious,  though 
he  learned  more  than  any  stranger  would  judge 
him  capable  of,  was  a  bold,  faithful  watch-dog, 
and  in  his  prime  a  grand  fighter,  able  to  whip 
all  the  other  dogs  in  the  neighborhood.  Com- 
paring him  with  ourselves,  we  soon  learned  that 
[  80  ] 


A  New  World 

although  he  could  not  read  books  he  could  read 
faces,  was  a  good  judge  of  character,  always 
knew  what  was  going  on  and  what  we  were 
about  to  do,  and  liked  to  help  us.  We  could 
run  nearly  as  fast  as  he  could,  see  about  as  far, 
and  perhaps  hear  as  well,  but  in  sense  of  smell 
his  nose  was  incomparably  better  than  ours. 
One  sharp  winter  morning  when  the  ground 
was  covered  with  snow,  I  noticed  that  when  he 
was  yawning  and  stretching  himself  after  leav- 
ing his  bed  he  suddenly  caught  the  scent  of 
something  that  excited  him,  went  round  the 
corner  of  the  house,  and  looked  intently  to  the 
westward  across  a  tongue  of  land  that  we  called 
West  Bank,  eagerly  questioning  the  air  with 
quivering  nostrils,  and  bristling  up  as  though 
he  felt  sure  that  there  was  something  dangerous 
in  that  direction  and  had  actually  caught  sight 
of  it.  Then  he  ran  toward  the  Bank,  and  I  fol- 
lowed him,  curious  to  see  what  his  nose  had 
discovered.  The  top  of  the  Bank  commanded 
a  view  of  the  north  end  of  our  lake  and  meadow, 
and  when  we  got  there  we  saw  an  Indian  hunter 
[  81  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

with  a  long  spear,  going  from  one  muskrat 
cabin  to  another,  approaching  cautiously,  care- 
ful to  make  no  noise,  and  then  suddenly  thrust- 
ing his  spear  down  through  the  house.  If  well 
aimed,  the  spear  went  through  the  poor  beaver 
rat  as  it  lay  cuddled  up  in  the  snug  nest  it  had 
made  for  itself  in  the  fall  with  so  much  far- 
seeing  care,  and  when  the  hunter  felt  the  spear 
quivering,  he  dug  down  the  mossy  hut  with  his 
tomahawk  and  secured  his  prey,  —  the  flesh  for 
food,  and  the  skin  to  sell  for  a  dime  or  so.  This 
was  a  clear  object  lesson  on  dogs'  keenness  of 
scent.  That  Indian  was  more  than  half  a  mile 
away  across  a  wooded  ridge.  Had  the  hunter 
been  a  white  man,  I  suppose  Watch  would  not 
have  noticed  him. 

When  he  was  about  six  or  seven  years  old,  he 
not  only  became  cross,  so  that  he  would  do  only 
what  he  liked,  but  he  fell  on  evil  ways,  and 
was  accused  by  the  neighbors  who  had  settled 
around  us  of  catching  and  devouring  whole 
broods  of  chickens,  some  of  them  only  a  day 
or  two  out  of  the  shell.  We  never  imagined  he 
[  82  ] 


A  New  World 

would  do  anything  so  grossly  undoglike.  He 
never  did  at  home.  But  several  of  the  neigh- 
bors declared  over  and  over  again  that  they 
had  caught  him  in  the  act,  and  insisted  that  he 
must  be  shot.  At  last,  in  spite  of  tearful  pro- 
tests, he  was  condemned  and  executed.  Father 
examined  the  poor  fellow's  stomach  in  search 
of  sure  evidence,  and  discovered  the  heads  of 
eight  chickens  that  he  had  devoured  at  his  last 
meal.  So  poor  Watch  was  killed  simply  be- 
cause his  taste  for  chickens  was  too  much  like 
our  own.  Think  of  the  millions  of  squabs  that 
preaching,  praying  men  and  women  kill  and 
eat,  with  all  sorts  of  other  animals  great  and 
small,  young  and  old,  while  eloquently  dis- 
coursing on  the  coming  of  the  blessed  peaceful, 
bloodless  millennium!  Think  of  the  passenger 
pigeons  that  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  filled  the 
woods  and  sky  over  half  the  continent,  now 
exterminated  by  beating  down  the  young  from 
the  nests  together  with  the  brooding  parents, 
before  they  could  try  their  wonderful  wings; 
by  trapping  them  in  nets,  feeding  them  to 
[  83  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

hogs,  etc.  None  of  our  fellow  mortals  is  safe 
who  eats  what  we  eat,  who  in  any  way  inter- 
feres with  our  pleasures,  or  who  may  be  used 
for  work  or  food,  clothing  or  ornament,  or  mere 
cruel,  sportish  amusement.  Fortunately  many 
are  too  small  to  be  seen,  and  therefore  enjoy 
life  beyond  our  reach.  And  in  looking  through 
God's  great  stone  books  made  up  of  records 
reaching  back  millions  and  millions  of  years, 
it  is  a  great  comfort  to  learn  that  vast  multi- 
tudes of  creatures,  great  and  small  and  infinite 
in  number,  lived  and  had  a  good  time  in  God's 
love  before  man  was  created. 

The  old  Scotch  fashion  of  whipping  for  every 
act  of  disobedience  or  of  simple,  playful  forget- 
fulness  was  still  kept  up  in  the  wilderness,  and 
of  course  many  of  those  whippings  fell  upon  me. 
Most  of  them  were  outrageously  severe,  and 
utterly  barren  of  fun.  But  here  is  one  that  was 
nearly  all  fun. 

Father  was  busy  hauling  lumber  for  the  frame 
house  that  was  to  be  got  ready  for  the  arrival 
of  my  mother,  sisters,  and  brother/ left  behind 
[  84  1 


A  New  World 

in  Scotland.  One  morning,  when  he  was  ready 
to  start  for  another  load,  his  ox-whip  was  not 
to  be  found.  He  asked  me  if  I  knew  anything 
about  it.  I  told  him  I  did  n't  know  where  it 
was,  but  Scotch  conscience  compelled  me  to 
confess  that  when  I  was  playing  with  it  I  had 
tied  it  to  Watch's  tail,  and  that  he  ran  away, 
dragging  it  through  the  grass,  and  came  back 
without  it.  "  It  must  have  slipped  off  his  tail," 
I  said,  and  so  I  did  n't  know  where  it  was. 
This  honest,  straightforward  little  story  made 
father  so  angry  that  he  exclaimed  with  heavy, 
foreboding  emphasis:  "The  very  deevil 's  in 
that  boy!"  David,  who  had  been  playing 
with  me  and  was  perhaps  about  as  respon- 
sible for  the  loss  of  the  whip  as  I  was,  said 
never  a  word,  for  he  was  always  prudent 
enough  to  hold  his  tongue  when  the  parental 
weather  was  stormy,  and  so  escaped  nearly 
all  punishment.  And,  strange  to  say,  this  time 
I  also  escaped,  all  except  a  terrible  scolding,  ' 
though  the  thrashing  weather  seemed  darker 
than  ever.  As  if  unwilling  to  let  the  sun  see  the 
[  85  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

shameful  job,  father  took  me  into  the  cabin 
where  the  storm  was  to  fall,  and  sent  David 
to  the  woods  for  a  switch.  While  he  was  out 
selecting  the  switch,  father  put  in  the  spare 
time  sketching  my  play-wickedness  in  awful 
colors,  and  of  course  referred  again  and  again 
to  the  place  prepared  for  bad  boys.  In  the 
midst  of  this  terrible  word-storm,  dreading 
most  the  impending  thrashing,  I  whimpered 
that  I  was  only  playing  because  I  could  n't 
help  it;  didn't  know  I  was  doing  wrong; 
would  n't  do  it  again,  and  so  forth.  After  this 
miserable  dialogue  was  about  exhausted,  father 
became  impatient  at  my  brother  for  taking  so 
long  to  find  the  switch;  and  so  was  I,  for  I 
wanted  to  have  the  thing  over  and  done  with. 
At  last,  in  came  David,  a  picture  of  open- 
hearted  innocence,  solemnly  dragging  a  young 
bur-oak  sapling,  and  handed  the  end  of  it  to 
father,  saying  it  was  the  best  switch  he  could 
find.  It  was  an  awfully  heavy  one,  about  two 
and  a  half  inches  thick  at  the  butt  and  ten  feet 
long,  almost  big  enough  for  a  fence-pole.  There 
[  86  ] 


A  New  World 

was  n't  room  enough  in  the  cabin  to  swing  it, 
and  the  moment  I  saw  it  I  burst  out  laughing 
in  the  midst  of  my  fears.  But  father  failed  to 
see  the  fun  and  was  very  angry  at  David, 
heaved  the  bur-oak  outside  and  passionately 
demanded  his  reason  for  fetching  "sic  a  muckle 
rail  like  that  instead  o'  a  switch?  Do  ye  ca' 
that  a  switch?  I  have  a  gude  mind  to  thrash 
you  insteed  o'  John."  David,  with  demure, 
downcast  eyes,  looked  preternaturally  right- 
eous, but  as  usual  prudently  answered  never  a 
word. 

It  was  a  hard  job  in  those  days  to  bring  up 
Scotch  boys  in  the  way  they  should  go;  and 
poor  overworked  father  was  determined  to  do 
it  if  enough  of  the  right  kind  of  switches  could 
be  found.  But  this  time,  as  the  sun  was  getting 
high,  he  hitched  up  old  Tom  and  Jerry  and 
made  haste  to  the  Kingston  lumber-yard, 
leaving  me  unscathed  and  as  innocently  wicked 
as  ever;  for  hardly  had  father  got  fairly  out  of 
sight  among  the  oaks  and  hickories,  ere  all  our 
troubles,  hell  -  threatenings,  and  exhortations 
[  87  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

were  forgotten  in  the  fun  we  had  lassoing  a 
stubborn  old  sow  and  laboriously  trying  to 
teach  her  to  go  reasonably  steady  in  rope  har- 
ness. She  was  the  first  hog  that  father  bought 
to  stock  the  farm,  and  we  boys  regarded  her 
as  a  very  wonderful  beast.  In  a  few  weeks  she 
had  a  lot  of  pigs,  and  of  all  the  queer,  funny, 
animal  children  we  had  yet  seen,  none  amused 
us  more.  They  were  so  comic  in  size  and  shape, 
in  their  gait  and  gestures,  their  merry  sham 
fights,  and  the  false  alarms  they  got  up  for  the 
fun  of  scampering  back  to  their  mother  and 
begging  her  in  most  persuasive  little  squeals  to 
lie  down  and  give  them  a  drink. 

After  her  darling  short-snouted  babies  were 
about  a  month  old,l  she  took  them  out  to 
the  woods  and  gradually  roamed  farther  and 
farther  from  the  shanty  in  search  of  acorns 
and  roots.  One  afternoon  we  heard  a  rifle-shot, 
a  very  noticeable  thing,  as  we  had  no  near 
neighbors,  as  yet.  We  thought  it  must  have 
been  fired  by  an  Indian  on  the  trail  that  fol- 
lowed the  right  bank  of  the  Fox  River  between 
[  88  1 


A  New  World 

Portage  and  Packwaukee  Lake  and  passed  our 
shanty  at  a  distance  of  about  three  quarters 
of  a  mile.  Just  a  few  minutes  after  that  shot 
was  heard,  along  came  the  poor  mother  rushing 
up  to  the  shanty  for  protection,  with  her  pigs, 
all  out  of  breath  and  terror-stricken.  One  of 
them  was  missing,  and  we  supposed  of  course 
that  an  Indian  had  shot  it  for  food.  Next  day, 
I  discovered  a  blood-puddle  where  the  Indian 
trail  crossed  the  outlet  of  our  lake.  One  of 
father's  hired  men  told  us  that  the  Indians 
thought  nothing  of  levying  this  sort  of  black- 
mail whenever  they  were  hungry.  The  solemn 
awe  and  fear  in  the  eyes  of  that  old  mother 
and  those  little  pigs  I  never  can  forget;  it  was 
as  unmistakable  and  deadly  a  fear  as  I  ever  saw 
expressed  by  any  human  eye,  and  corroborates 
in  no  uncertain  way  the  oneness  of  all  of  us. 


Ill 

LIFE   ON  A  WISCONSIN   FARM 

Humanity  in  Oxen  —  Jack,  the  Pony  —  Learning  to  Ride 
—  Nob  and  Nell  —  Snakes  —  Mosquitoes  and  their  Kin  — 
Fish  and  Fishing  —  Considering  the  Lilies  —  Learning  to 
Swim  —  A  Narrow  Escape  from  Drowning  and  a  Victory — 
Accidents  to  Animals. 

COMING  direct  from  school  in  Scotland 
while  we  were  still  hopefully  ignorant 
and  far  from  tame,  —  notwithstand- 
ing the  unnatural  profusion  of  teaching  and 
thrashing    lavished    upon    us,  —  getting    ac- 
quainted with  the  animals  about  us  was  a 
never-failing  source  of  wonder  and  delight.  At 
first  my  father,  like  nearly  all  the  backwoods 
settlers,  bought  a  yoke  of  oxen  to  do  the  farm 
work,  and  as  field  after  field  was  cleared,  the 
number  was  gradually  increased  until  we  had 
five  yoke.   These  wise,  patient,  plodding  ani- 
mals did  all  the  ploughing,  logging,  hauling, 
and  hard  work  of  every  sort  for  the  first  four  or 
[  90  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

five  years,  and,  never  having  seen  oxen  before, 
we  looked  at  them  with  the  same  eager  fresh- 
ness of  conception  as  we  did  at  the  wild  animals. 
We  worked  with  them,  sympathized  with  them 
in  their  rest  and  toil  and  play,  and  thus  learned 
to  know  them  far  better  than  we  should  had 
we  been  only  trained  scientific  naturalists.  We 
soon  learned  that  each  ox  and  cow  and  calf  had 
individual  character.  Old  white-faced  Buck, 
one  of  the  second  yoke  of  oxen  we  owned,  was 
a  notably  sagacious  fellow.  He  seemed  to 
reason  sometimes  almost  like  ourselves.  In  the 
fall  we  fed  the  cattle  lots  of  pumpkins  and 
had  to  split  them  open  so  that  mouthfuls  could 
be  readily  broken  off.  But  Buck  never  waited 
for  us  to  come  to  his  help.  The  others,  when 
they  were  hungry  and  impatient,  tried  to 
break  through  the  hard  rind  with  their  teeth, 
but  seldom  with  success  if  the  pumpkin  was 
full  grown.  Buck  never  wasted  time  in  this 
mumbling,  slavering  way,  but  crushed  them 
with  his  head.  He  went  to  the  pile,  picked  out 
a  good  one,  like  a  boy  choosing  an  orange  or 
[  91  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

apple,  rolled  it  down  on  to  the  open  ground, 
deliberately  kneeled  in  front  of  it,  placed  his 
broad,  flat  brow  on  top  of  it,  brought  his  weight 
hard  down  and  crushed  it,  then  quietly  arose 
and  went  on  with  his  meal  in  comfort.  Some 
would  call  this  "instinct,"  as  if  so-called 
"blind  instinct"  must  necessarily  make  an  ox 
stand  on  its  head  to  break  pumpkins  when  its 
teeth  got  sore,  or  when  nobody  came  with  an 
axe  to  split  them.  Another  fine  ox  showed  his 
skill  when  hungry  by  opening  all  the  fences 
that  stood  in  his  way  to  the  corn-fields. 

The  humanity  we  found  in  them  came  partly 
through  the  expression  of  their  eyes  when 
tired,  their  tones  of  voice  when  hungry  and 
calling  for  food,  their  patient  plodding  and 
pulling  in  hot  weather,  their  long-drawn-out 
sighing  breath  when  exhausted  and  suffering 
like  ourselves,  and  their  enjoyment  of  rest 
with  the  same  grateful  looks  as  ours.  We 
recognized  their  kinship  also  by  their  yawning 
like  ourselves  when  sleepy  and  evidently  en- 
joying the  same  peculiar  pleasure  at  the  roots 
[  92  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

of  their  jaws;  by  the  way  they  stretched  them- 
selves in  the  morning  after  a  good  rest;  by 
learning  languages,  —  Scotch,  English,  Irish, 
French,  Dutch,  —  a  smattering  of  each  as  re- 
quired in  the  faithful  service  they  so  willingly, 
wisely  rendered ;  by  their  intelligent,  alert  curi- 
osity, manifested  in  listening  to  strange  sounds; 
their  love  of  play;  the  attachments  they  made; 
and  their  mourning,  long  continued,  when  a 
companion  was  killed. 

When  we  went  to  Portage,  our  nearest  town, 
about  ten  or  twelve  miles  from  the  farm,  it 
would  oftentimes  be  late  before  we  got  back, 
and  in  the  summer  -  time,  in  sultry,  rainy 
weather,  the  clouds  were  full  of  sheet  lightning 
which  every  minute  or  two  would  suddenly  il- 
lumine the  landscape,  revealing  all  its  features, 
the  hills  and  valleys,  meadows  and  trees,  about 
as  fully  and  clearly  as  the  noonday  sunshine ; 
then  as  suddenly  the  glorious  light  would  be 
quenched,  making  the  darkness  seem  denser 
than  before.  On  such  nights  the  cattle  had  to 
find  the  way  home  without  any  help  from  us, 
[  93  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

but  they  never  got  off  the  track,  for  they  fol- 
lowed it  by  scent  like  dogs.  Once,  father, 
returning  late  from  Portage  or  Kingston,  com- 
pelled Tom  and  Jerry,  our  first  oxen,  to  leave 
the  dim  track,  imagining  they  must  be  going 
wrong.  At  last  they  stopped  and  refused  to 
go  farther.  Then  father  unhitched  them  from 
the  wagon,  took  hold  of  Tom's  tail,  and  was 
thus  led  straight  to  the  shanty.  Next  morning 
he  set  out  to  seek  his  wagon  and  found  it  on  the 
brow  of  a  steep  hill  above  an  impassable  swamp. 
We  learned  less  from  the  cows,  because  we 
did  not  enter  so  far  into  their  lives,  working 
with  them,  suffering  heat  and  cold,  hunger  and 
thirst,  and  almost  deadly  weariness  with  them; 
but  none  with  natural  charity  could  fail  to 
sympathize  with  them  in  their  love  for  their 
calves,  and  to  feel  that  it  in  no  way  differed  from 
the  divine  mother-love  of  a  woman  in  thought- 
ful, self-sacrificing  care;  for  they  would  brave 
every  danger,  giving  their  lives  for  their  off- 
spring. Nor  could  we  fail  to  sympathize  with 
their  awkward,  blunt-nosed  baby  calves,  with 
[  94  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

such  beautiful,  wondering  eyes  looking  out  on 
the  world  and  slowly  getting  acquainted  with 
things,  all  so  strange  to  them,  and  awkwardly 
learning  to  use  their  legs,  and  play  and  fight. 

Before  leaving  Scotland,  father  promised  us 
a  pony  to  ride  when  we  got  to  America,  and 
we  saw  to  it  that  this  promise  was  not  forgotten. 
Only  a  week  or  two  after  our  arrival  in  the 
woods  he  bought  us  a  little  Indian  pony  for 
thirteen  dollars  from  a  store-keeper  in  Kingston 
who  had  obtained  him  from  a  Winnebago  or 
Menominee  Indian  in  trade  for  goods.  He  was 
a  stout  handsome  bay  with  long  black  mane 
and  tail,  and,  though  he  was  only  two  years  old, 
the  Indians  had  already  taught  him  to  carry 
all  sorts  of  burdens,  to  stand  without  being 
tied,  to  go  anywhere  over  all  sorts  of  ground 
fast  or  slow,  and  to  jump  and  swim  and 
fear  nothing,  —  a  truly  wonderful  creature, 
strangely  different  from  shy,  skittish,  nervous, 
superstitious  civilized  feasts.  We  turned  him 
loose,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  never  ran  away 
from  us  or  refused  to  be  caught,  but  behaved 
[  95  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

as  if  he  had  known  Scotch  boys  all  his  life; 
probably  because  we  were  about  as  wild  as 
young  Indians. 

One  day  when  father  happened  to  have  a 
little  leisure,  he  said,  "Noo,  bairns,  rin  doon 
the  meadow  and  get  your  powny  and  learn 
to  ride  him."  So  we  led  him  out  to  a  smooth 
place  near  an  Indian  mound  back  of  the 
shanty,  where  father  directed  us  to  begin. 
I  mounted  for  the  first  memorable  lesson, 
crossed  the  mound,  and  set  out  at  a  slow 
walk  along  the  wagon-track  made  in  hauling 
lumber;  then  father  shouted:  "Whup  him  up, 
John,  whup  him  up !  Make  him  gallop ;  gallopin* 
is  easier  and  better  than  walkin'  or  trottin'." 
Jack  was  willing,  and  away  he  sped  at  a  good 
fast  gallop.  I  managed  to  keep  my  balance 
fairly  well  by  holding  fast  to  the  mane,  but 
could  not  keep  from  bumping  up  and  down,  for 
I  was  plump  and  elastic  and  so  was  Jack; 
therefore  about  half  of  the  time  I  was  in 
the  air. 

After  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  of  this  curi- 
[  96  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

cms  transportation,  I  cried,  "Whoa,  Jack!" 
The  wonderful  creature  seemed  to  understand 
Scotch,  for  he  stopped  so  suddenly  I  flew  over 
his  head,  but  he*stood  perfectly  still  as  if  that 
flying  method  of  dismounting  were  the  regular 
way.  Jumping  on  again,  I  bumped  and  bobbed 
back  along  the  grassy,  flowery  track,  over  the 
Indian  mound,  cried,  "Whoa,  Jack!"  flew  over 
his  head,  and  alighted  in  father's  arms  as 
gracefully  as  if  it  were  all  intended  for  circus 
work. 

After  going  over  the  course  five  or  six 
times  in  the  same  free,  picturesque  style,  I 
gave  place  to  brother  David,  whose  perform- 
ances were  much  like  my  own.  In  a  few  weeks, 
however,  or  a  month,  we  were  taking  adventur- 
ous rides  more  than  a  mile  long  out  to  a  big 
meadow  frequented  by  sandhill  cranes,  and 
returning  safely  with  wonderful  stories  of  the 
great  long-legged  birds  we  had  seen,  and  how 
on  the  whole  journey  away  and  back  we  had 
fallen  off  only  five  or  six  times.  Gradually  we 
learned  to  gallop  through  the  woods  without 
[  97  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

roads  of  any  sort,  bareback  and  without  rope 
or  bridle,  guiding  only  by  leaning  from  side  to 
side  or  by  slight  knee  pressure.  In  this  free 
way  we  used  to  amuse  ourselves,  riding  at  full 
speed  across  a  big  "kettle"  that  was  on  our 
farm,  without  holding  on  by  either  mane  or 
tail. 

These  so-called  "kettles"  were  formed  by 
the  melting  of  large  detached  blocks  of  ice 
that  had  been  buried  in  moraine  material 
thousands  of  years  ago  when  the  ice-sheet  that 
covered  all  this  region  was  receding.  As  the 
buried  ice  melted,  of  course  the  moraine  mate- 
rial above  and  about  it  fell  in,  forming  hopper- 
shaped  hollows,  while  the  grass  growing  on 
their  sides  and  around  them  prevented  the 
rain  and  wind  from  filling  them  up.  The  one  we 
performed  in  was  perhaps  seventy  or  eighty 
feet  wide  and  twenty  or  thirty  feet  deep ;  and 
without  a  saddle  or  hold  of  any  kind  it  was  not 
easy  to  keep  from  slipping  over  Jack's  head  in 
diving  into  it,  or  over  his  tail  climbing  out. 
This  was  fine  sport  on  the  long  summer  Sun- 
L98  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

days  when  we  were  able  to  steal  away  before 
meeting-time  without  being  seen.  We  got  very 
warm  and  red  at  it,  and  oftentimes  poor  Jack, 
dripping  with  sweat  like  his  riders,  seemed  to 
have  been  boiled  in  that  kettle. 

In  Scotland  we  had  often  been  admonished 
to  be  bold,  and  this  advice  we  passed  on  to 
Jack,  who  had  already  got  many  a  wild  lesson 
from  Indian  boys.  Once,  when  teaching  him 
to  jump  muddy  streams,  I  made  him  try  the 
creek  in  our  meadow  at  a  place  where  it  is 
about  twelve  feet  wide.  He  jumped  bravely 
enough,  but  came  down  with  a  grand  splash 
hardly  more  than  halfway  over.  The  water 
was  only  about  a  foot  in  depth,  but  the  black 
vegetable  mud  half  afloat  was  unfathomable. 
I  managed  to  wallow  ashore,  but  poor  Jack 
sank  deeper  and  deeper  until  only  his  head  was 
visible  in  the  black  abyss,  and  his  Indian  forti- 
tude was  desperately  tried.  His  foundering  so 
suddenly  in  the  treacherous  gulf  recalled  the 
story  of  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok's  bell, 
which  went  down  with  a  gurgling  sound  while 
[  99  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

bubbles  rose  and  burst  around.  I  had  to  go 
to  father  for  help.  He  tied  a  long  hemp  rope 
brought  from  Scotland  around  Jack's  neck,  and 
Tom  and  Jerry  seemed  to  have  all  they  could 
do  to  pull  him  out.  After  which  I  got  a  solemn 
scolding  for  asking  the  "puir  beast  to 'jump 
intil  sic  a  saft  bottomless  place/' 

We  moved  into  our  frame  house  in  the  fall, 
when  mother  with  the  rest  of  the  family  arrived 
from  Scotland,  and,  when  the  winter  snow  be- 
gan to  fly,  the  bur-oak  shanty  was  made  into 
a  stable  for  Jack.  Father  told  us  that  good 
meadow  hay  was  all  he  required,  but  we  fed 
him  corn,  lots  of  it,  and  he  grew  very  frisky 
and  fat.  About  the  middle  of  winter  his  long 
hair  was  full  of  dust  and,  as  we  thought,  re- 
quired washing.  So,  without  taking  the  frosty 
weather  into  account,  we  gave  him  a  thorough 
soap  and  water  scouring,  and  as  we  failed  to 
get  him  rubbed  dry,  a  row  of  icicles  formed 
under  his  belly.  Father  happened  to  see  him 
in  this  condition  and  angrily  asked  what  we 
had  been  about.  We  said  Jack  was  dirty  and 

[    100   ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

we  had  washed  him  to  make  him  healthy.  He 
told  us  we  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves, 
"soaking  the  puir  beast  in  cauld  water  at  this 
time  o'  year";  that  when  we  wanted  to  clean 
him  we  should  have  sense  enough  to  use  the 
brush  and  curry-comb. 

In  summer  Dave  or  I  had  to  ride  after  the 
cows  every  evening  about  sundown,  and  Jack 
got  so  accustomed  to  bringing  in  the  drove 
that  when  we  happened  to  be  a  few  minutes 
late  he  used  to  go  off  alone  at  the  regular  time 
and  bring  them  home  at  a  gallop.  It  used  to 
make  father  very  angry  to  see  Jack  chasing  the 
cows  like  a  shepherd  dog,  running  from  one  to 
the  other  and  giving  each  a  bite  on  the  rump 
to  keep  them  on  the  run,  flying  before  him  as  if 
pursued  by  wolves.  Father  would  declare  at 
times  that  the  wicked  beast  had  the  deevil  in 
him  and  would  be  the  death  of  the  cattle.  The 
corral  and  barn  were  just  at  the  foot  of  a  hill, 
and  he  made  a  great  display  of  the  drove  on  the 
home  stretch  as  they  walloped  down  that  hill 
with  their  tails  on  end. 

[  101  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

One  evening  when  the  pell-mell  Wild  West 
show  was  at  its  wildest,  it  made  father  so 
extravagantly  mad  that  he  ordered  me  to 
"Shoot  Jack!"  I  went  to  the  house  and 
brought  the  gun,  suffering  most  horrible  men- 
tal anguish,  such  as  I  suppose  unhappy  Abra- 
ham felt  when  commanded  to  slay  Isaac. 
Jack's  life  was  spared,  however,  though  I  can't 
tell  what  finally  became  of  him.  I  wish  I  could. 
After  father  bought  a  span  of  work  horses  he 
was  sold  to  a  man  who  said  he  was  going  to 
ride  him  across  the  plains  to  California.  We 
had  him,  I  think,  some  five  or  six  years.  He 
was  the  stoutest,  gentlest,  bravest  little  horse 
I  ever  saw.  He  never  seemed  tired,  could  can- 
ter all  day  with  a  man  about  as  heavy  as 
himself  on  his  back,  and  feared  nothing.  Once 
fifty  or  sixty  pounds  of  beef  that  was  tied 
on  his  back  slid  over  his  shoulders  along  his 
neck  and  weighed  down  his  head  to  the  ground, 
fairly  anchoring  him ;  but  he  stood  patient  and 
still  for  half  an  hour  or  so  without  making  the 
slightest  struggle  to  free  himself,  while  I  was 
[  102  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

away  getting  help  to  untie  the  pack-rope  and 
set  the  load  back  in  its  place. 

As  I  was  the  eldest  boy  I  had  the  care  of  our 
first  span  of  work  horses.  Their  names  were 
Nob  and  Nell.  Nob  was  very  intelligent,  and 
even  affectionate,  and  could  learn  almost  any- 
thing. Nell  was  entirely  different;  balky  and 
stubborn,  though  we  managed  to  teach  her  a 
good  many  circus  tricks;  but  she  never  seemed 
to  like  to  play  with  us  in  anything  like  an  affec- 
tionate way  as  Nob  did.  We  turned  them  out 
one  day  into  the  pasture,  and  an  Indian,  hiding 
in  the  brush  that  had  sprung  up  after  the  grass 
fires  had  been  kept  out,  managed  to  catch  Nob, 
tied  a  rope  to  her  jaw  for  a  bridle,  rode  her 
to  Green  Lake,  about  thirty  or  forty  miles 
away,  and  tried  to  sell  her  for  fifteen  dollars. 
All  our  hearts  were  sore,  as  if  one  of  the  family 
had  been  lost.  We  hunted  everywhere  and 
could  not  at  first  imagine  what  had  become  of 
her.  We  discovered  her  track  where  the  fence 
was  broken  down,  and,  following  it  for  a  few 
miles,  made  sure  the  track  was  Nob's;  and  a 
[  103  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

neighbor  told  us  he  had  seen  an  Indian  riding 
fast  through  the  woods  on  a  horse  that  looked 
like  Nob.  But  we  could  find  no  farther  trace  of 
her  until  a  month  or  two  after  she  was  lost, 
and  we  had  given  up  hope  of  ever  seeing  her 
again.  Then  we  learned  that  she  had  been  taken 
from  an  Indian  by  a  farmer  at  Green  Lake  be- 
cause he  saw  that  she  had  been  shod  and  had 
worked  in  harness.  So  when  the  Indian  tried 
to  sell  her  the  farmer  said:  "You  are  a  thief. 
That  is  a  white  man's  horse.  You  stole  her." 
"No,"  said  the  Indian,  "I  brought  her  from 
Prairie  du  Chien  and  she  has  always  been 


mine." 


The  man,  pointing  to  her  feet  and  the  marks 
of  the  harness,  said :  "You  are  lying.  I  will  take 
that  horse  away  from  you  and  put  her  in  my 
pasture,  and  if  you  come  near  it  I  will  set  the 
dogs  on  you."  Then  he  advertised  her.  One  of 
our  neighbors  happened  to  see  the  advertise- 
ment and  brought  us  the  glad  news,  and  great 
was  our  rejoicing  when  father  brought  her 
home.  That  Indian  must  have  treated  her  with 
[  104  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

terrible  cruelty,  for  when  I  was  riding  her 
through  the  pasture  several  years  afterward, 
looking  for  another  horse  that  we  wanted  to 
catch,  as  we  approached  the  place  where  she 
had  been  captured  she  stood  stock  still  gazing 
through  the  bushes,  fearing  the  Indian  might 
still  be  hiding  there  ready  to  spring;  and  she 
was  so  excited  that  she  trembled,  and  her 
heartbeats  were  so  loud  that  I  could  hear  them 
distinctly  as  I  sat  on  her  back,  boomp,  boomp, 
boomp,  like  the  drumming  of  a  partridge. 
So  vividly  had  she  remembered  her  terrible 
experiences. 

She  was  a  great  pet  and  favorite  with  the 
whole  family,  quickly  learned  playful  tricks, 
came  running  when  we  called,  seemed  to  know 
everything  we  said  to  her,  and  had  the  utmost 
confidence  in  our  friendly  kindness. 

We  used  to  cut  and  shock  and  husk  the 
Indian  corn  in  the  fall,  until  a  keen  Yankee 
stopped  overnight  at  our  house  and  among 
other  labor-saving  notions  convinced  father 
that  it  was  better  to  let  it  stand,  and  husk  it 
[  105  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

at  his  leisure  during  the  winter,  then  turn  in 
the  cattle  to  eat  the  leaves  and  trample  down 
the  stalks,  so  that  they  could  be  ploughed  under 
in  the  spring.  In  this  winter  method  each  of  us 
took  two  rows  and  husked  into  baskets,  and 
emptied  the  corn  on  the  ground  in  piles  of  fif- 
teen to  twenty  basketfuls,  then  loaded  it  into 
the  wagon  to  be  hauled  to  the  crib.  This 
was  cold,  painful  work,  the  temperature  being 
oftentimes  far  below  zero  and  the  ground  cov- 
ered with  dry,  frosty  snow,  giving  rise  to  mis- 
erable crops  of  chilblains  and  frosted  fingers,  — 
a  sad  change  from  the  merry  Indian-summer 
husking,  when  the  big  yellow  pumpkins  covered 
the  cleared  fields; — golden  corn,  golden  pump- 
kins, gathered  in  the  hazy  golden  weather.  Sad 
change,  indeed,  but  we  occasionally  got  some 
fun  out  of  the  nipping,  shivery  work  from  hun- 
gry prairie  chickens,  and  squirrels  and  mice  that 
came  about  us. 

The  piles  of  corn  were  often  left  in  the  field 
several  days,  and  while  loading  them  into  the 
wagon  we  usually  found  field  mice  in  them,  — 
[  106  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

big,  blunt-nosed,  strong-scented  fellows  that 
we  were  taught  to  kill  just  because  they  nibbled 
a  few  grains  of  corn.  I  used  to  hold  one  while 
it  was  still  warm,  up  to  Nob's  nose  for  the  fun 
of  seeing  her  make  faces  and  snort  at  the  smell 
of  it;  and  I  would  say:  "Here,  Nob/'  as  if 
offering  her  a  lump  of  sugar.  One  day  I  offered 
her  an  extra  fine,  fat,  plump  specimen,  some- 
thing like  a  little  woodchuck,  or  muskrat,  and 
to  my  astonishment,  after  smelling  it  curiously 
and  doubtfully,  as  if  wondering  what  the  gift 
might  be,  and  rubbing  it  back  and  forth  in  the 
palm  of  my  hand  with  her  upper  lip,  she  delib- 
erately took  it  into  her  mouth,  crunched  and 
munched  and  chewed  it  fine  and  swallowed  it, 
bones,  teeth,  head,  tail,  everything.  Not  a 
single  hair  of  that  mouse  was  wasted.  When 
she  was  chewing  it  she  nodded  and  grunted,  as 
though  critically  tasting  and  relishing  it. 

My  father  was  a  steadfast  enthusiast  on 

religious   matters,   and,   of  course,   attended 

almost  every  sort  of  church-meeting,  especially 

revival  meetings.  They  were  occasionally  held 

[  107  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

in  summer,  but  mostly  in  winter  when  the 
sleighing  was  good  and  plenty  of  time  avail- 
able. One  hot  summer  day  father  drove  Nob 
to  Portage  and  back,  twenty-four  miles  over  a 
sandy  road.  It  was  a  hot,  hard,  sultry  day's 
work,  and  she  had  evidently  been  over-driven 
in  order  to  get  home  in  time  for  one  of  these 
meetings.  I  shall  never  forget  how  tired  and 
wilted  she  looked  that  evening  when  I  unhitched 
her;  how  she  drooped  in  her  stall,  too  tired  to 
eat  or  even  to  lie  down.  Next  morning  it  was 
plain  that  her  lungs  were  inflamed;  all  the 
dreadful  symptoms  were  just  the  same  as  my 
own  when  I  had  pneumonia.  Father  sent  for  a 
Methodist  minister,  a  very  energetic,  resource- 
ful man,  who  was  a  blacksmith,  farmer,  butcher, 
and  horse-doctor  as  well  as  minister;  but  all 
his  gifts  and  skill  were  of  no  avail.  Nob  was 
doomed.  We  bathed  her  head  and  tried  to  get 
her  to  eat  something,  but  she  couldn't  eat, 
and  in  about  a  couple  of  weeks  we  turned  her 
loose  to  let  her  come  around  the  house  and  see 
us  in  the  weary  suffering  and  loneliness  of  the 
[  108  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

shadow  of  death.  She  tried  to  follow  us  child- 
ren, so  long  her  friends  and  workmates  and 
playmates.  It  was  awfully  touching.  She  had 
several  hemorrhages,  and  in  the  forenoon  of  her 
last  day,  after  she  had  had  one  of  her  dread-  4 
ful  spells  of  bleeding  and  gasping  for  breath, 
she  came  to  me  trembling,  with  beseeching, 
heartbreaking  looks,  and  after  I  had  bathed 
her  head  and  tried  to  soothe  and  pet  her,  she 
lay  down  and  gasped  and  died.  All  the  fam- 
ily gathered  about  her,  weeping,  with  aching 
hearts.  Then  dust  to  dust. 

She  was  the  most  faithful,  intelligent,  playful, 
affectionate,  human-like  horse  I  ever  knew,  and 
she  won  all  our  hearts.  Of  the  many  advan- 
tages of  farm  life  for  boys  one  of  the  greatest 
is  the  gaining  a  real  knowledge  of  animals  as  , 
fellow-mortals,  learning  to  respect  them  and 
love  them,  and  even  to  win  some  of  their  love. 
Thus  godlike  sympathy  grows  and  thrives  and 
spreads  far  beyond  the  teachings  of  churches 
and  schools,  where  too  often  the  mean,  blind- 
ing, loveless  doctrine  is  taught  that  animals 
[  109  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

have  neither  mind  nor  soul,  have  no  rights  that 
we  are  bound  to  respect,  and  were  made  only 
for  man,  to  be  petted,  spoiled,  slaughtered,  or 
enslaved. 

At  first  we  were  afraid  of  snakes,  but  soon 
learned  that  most  of  them  were  harmless.  The 
only  venomous  species  seen  on  our  farm  were 
the  rattlesnake  and  the  copperhead,  one  of 
each.  David  saw  the  rattler,  and  we  both  saw 
the  copperhead.  One  day,  when  my  brother 
came  in  from  his  work,  he  reported  that  he  had 
seen  a  snake  that  made  a  queer  buzzy  noise 
with  its  tail.  This  was  the  only  rattlesnake 
seen  on  our  farm,  though  we  heard  of  them 
being  common  on  limestone  hills  eight  or  ten 
miles  distant.  We  discovered  the  copperhead 
when  we  were  ploughing,  and  we  saw  and  felt 
at  the  first  long,  fixed,  half-charmed,  admiring 
stare  at  him  that  he  was  an  awfully  dangerous 
fellow.  Every  fibre  of  his  strong,  lithe,  quiver- 
ing body,  his  burnished  copper-colored  head, 
and  above  all  his  fierce,  able  eyes,  seemed  to 
be  overflowing  full  of  deadly  power,  and  bade  us 
[  no  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

beware.  And  yet  it  is  only  fair  to  say  that  this 
terrible,  beautiful  reptile  showed  no  disposition 
to  hurt  us  until  we  threw  clods  at  him  and  tried 
to  head  him  off  from  a  log  fence  into  which  he 
was  trying  to  escape.  We  were  barefooted  and 
of  course  afraid  to  let  him  get  very  near,  while 
we  vainly  battered  him  with  the  loose  sandy 
clods  of  the  freshly  ploughed  field  to  hold  him 
back  until  we  could  get  a  stick.  Looking  us  in 
the  eyes  after  a  moment's  pause,  he  probably 
saw  we  were  afraid,  and  he  came  right  straight 
at  us,  snapping  and  looking  terrible,  drove  us 
out  of  his  way,  and  won  his  fight. 

Out  on  the  open  sandy  hills  there  were  a 
good  many  thick  burly  blow  snakes,  the  kind 
that  puff  themselves  up  and  hiss.  Our  Yankee 
declared  that  their  breath  was  very  poisonous 
and  that  we  must  not  go  near  them.  A  hand- 
some ringed  species  common  in  damp,  shady 
places  was,  he  told  us,  the  most  wonderful  of 
all  the  snakes,  for  if  chopped  into  pieces,  how- 
ever small,  the  fragments  would  wriggle  them- 
selves together  again,  and  the  restored  snake 
I  in  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

would  go  on  about  its  business  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  The  commonest  kinds  were  the 
striped  slender  species  of  the  meadows  and 
streams,  good  swimmers,  that  lived  mostly  on 
frogs. 

Once  I  observed  one  of  the  larger  ones, 
about  two  feet  long,  pursuing  a  frog  in  our  mea- 
dow, and  it  was  wonderful  to  see  how  fast  the 
legless,  footless,  wingless,  finless  hunter  could 
run.  The  frog,  of  course,  knew  its  enemy  and 
was  making  desperate  efforts  to  escape  to  the 
water  and  hide  in  the  marsh  mud.  He  was 
a  fine,  sleek  yellow  muscular  fellow  and  was 
springing  over  the  tall  grass  in  wide-arch- 
ing jumps.  The  green-striped  snake,  gliding 
swiftly  and  steadily,  was  keeping  the  frog  in 
sight  and,  had  I  not  interfered,  would  probably 
have  tired  out  the  poor  jumper.  Then,  perhaps, 
while  digesting  and  enjoying  his  meal,  the 
happy  snake  would  himself  be  swallowed  frog 
and  all  by  a  hawk.  Again,  to  our  astonishment, 
the  small  specimens  were  attacked  by  our  hens. 
They  pursued  and  pecked  away  at  them  until 
[  112  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

they  killed  and  devoured  them,  oftentimes 
quarreling  over  the  division  of  the  spoil,  though 
it  was  not  easily  divided. 

We  watched  the  habits  of  the  swift-dart- 
ing dragonflies,  wild  bees,  butterflies,  wasps, 
beetles,  etc.,  and  soon  learned  to  discriminate 
between  those  that  might  be  safely  handled 
and  the  pinching  or  stinging  species.  But  of  all 
our  wild  neighbors  the  mosquitoes  were  the 
first  with  which  we  became  very  intimately 
acquainted. 

The  beautiful  meadow  lying  warm  in  the 
spring  sunshine,  outspread  between  our  lily- 
rimmed  lake  and  the  hill-slope  that  our  shanty 
stood  on,  sent  forth  thirsty  swarms  of  the  lit- 
tle gray,  speckledy,  singing,  stinging  pests;  and 
how  tellingly  they  introduced  themselves!  Of 
little  avail  were  the  smudges  that  we  made  on 
muggy  evenings  to  drive  them  away;  and  amid 
the  many  lessons  which  they  insisted  upon 
teaching  us  we  wondered  more  and  more  at  the 
extent  of  their  knowledge,  especially  that  in 
their  tiny,  flimsy  bodies  room  could  be  found 
[  113  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

for  such  cunning  palates.  They  would  drink 
their  fill  from  brown,  smoky  Indians,  or  from 
old  white  folk  flavored  with  tobacco  and  whis- 
key, when  no  better  could  be  had.  But  the 
surpassing  fineness  of  their  taste  was  best 
manifested  by  their  enthusiastic  appreciation 
of  boys  full  of  lively  red  blood,  and  of  girls  in 
full  bloom  fresh  from  cool  Scotland  or  England. 
On  these  it  was  pleasant  to  witness  their  enjoy- 
ment as  they  feasted.  Indians,  we  were  told, 
believed  that  if  they  were  brave  fighters  they 
would  go  after  death  to  a  happy  country 
abounding  in  game,  where  there  were  no  mos- 
quitoes and  no  cowards.  For  cowards  were 
driven  away  by  themselves  to  a  miserable 
country  where  there  was  no  game  fit  to  eat, 
and  where  the  sky  was  always  dark  with  huge 
gnats  and  mosquitoes  as  big  as  pigeons. 

We  were  great  admirers  of  the  little  black 
water-bugs.  Their  whole  lives  seemed  to  be 
play,  skimming,  swimming,  swirling,  and  waltz- 
ing together  in  little  groups  on  the  edge  of  the 
lake  and  in  the  meadow  springs,  dancing  to 
[  114  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

music  we  never  could  hear.  The  long-legged 
skaters,  too,  seemed  wonderful  fellows,  shuffling 
about  on  top  of  the  water,  with  air-bubbles 
like  little  bladders  tangled  under  their  hairy 
feet;  and  we  often  wished  that  we  also  might 
be  shod  in  the  same  way  to  enable  us  to  skate 
on  the  lake  in  summer  as  well  as  in  icy  winter. 
Not  less  wonderful  were  the  boatmen,  swim- 
ming on  their  backs,  pulling  themselves  along 
with  a  pair  of  oar-like  legs. 

Great  was  the  delight  of  brothers  David  and 
Daniel  and  myself  when  father  gave  us  a  few 
pine  boards  for  a  boat,  and  it  was  a  memorable 
day  when  we  got  that  boat  built  and  launched 
into  the  lake.  Never  shall  I  forget  our  first  sail 
over  the  gradually  deepening  water,  the  sun- 
beams pouring  through  it  revealing  the  strange 
plants  covering  the  bottom,  and  the  fishes  com- 
ing about  us,  staring  and  wondering  as  if  the 
boat  were  a  monstrous  strange  fish. 

The  water  was  so  clear  that  it  was  almost 
invisible,  and  when  we  floated  slowly  out  over 
the  plants  and  fishes,  we  seemed  to  be  miracu- 
t  H5  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

lously  sustained  in  the  air  while  silently  explor- 
ing a  veritable  fairyland. 

We  always  had  to  work  hard,  but  if  we 
worked  still  harder  we  were  occasionally  allowed 
a  little  spell  in  the  long  summer  evenings  about 
sundown  to  fish,  and  on  Sundays  an  hour  or 
two  to  sail  quietly  without  fishing-rod  or  gun 
when  the  lake  was  calm.  Therefore  we  gradu- 
ally learned  something  about  its  inhabitants, — 
pickerel,  sunfish,  black  bass,  perch,  shiners, 
pumpkin-seeds,  ducks,  loons,  turtles,  muskrats, 
etc.  We  saw  the  sunfishes  making  their  nests 
in  little  openings  in  the  rushes  where  the  water 
was  only  a  few  feet  deep,  ploughing  up  and 
shoving  away  the  soft  gray  mud  with  their 
noses,  like  pigs,  forming  round  bowls  five  or  six 
inches  in  depth  and  about  two  feet  in  diameter, 
in  which  their  eggs  were  deposited.  And  with 
what  beautiful,  unweariable  devotion  they 
watched  and  hovered  over  them  and  chased 
away  prowling  spawn-eating  enemies  that  ven- 
tured within  a  rod  or  two  of  the  precious  nest! 

The  pickerel  is  a  savage  fish  endowed  with 
[  116  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

marvelous  strength  and  speed.  It  lies  in  wait 
for  its  prey  on  the  bottom,  perfectly  motion- 
less like  a  waterlogged  stick,  watching  every- 
thing that  moves,  with  fierce,  hungry  eyes. 
Oftentimes  when  we  were  fishing  for  some  other 
kinds  over  the  edge  of  the  boat,  a  pickerel  that 
we  had  not  noticed  would  come  like  a  bolt  of 
lightning  and  seize  the  fish  we  had  caught 
before  we  could  get  it  into  the  boat.  The  very 
first  pickerel  that  I  ever  caught  jumped  into 
the  air  to  seize  a  small  fish  dangling  on  my  line, 
and,  missing  its  aim,  fell  plump  into  the  boat 
as  if  it  had  dropped  from  the  sky. 

Some  of  our  neighbors  fished  for  pickerel 
through  the  ice  in  midwinter.  They  usually 
drove  a  wagon  out  on  the  lake,  set  a  large 
number  of  lines  baited  with  live  minnows,  hung 
a  loop  of  the  lines  over  a  small  bush  planted  at 
the  side  of  each  hole,  and  watched  to  see  the 
loops  pulled  off  when  a  fish  had  taken  the  bait. 
Large  quantities  of  pickerel  were  often  caught 
in  this  cruel  way. 

Our  beautiful  lake,  named  Fountain  Lake  by 
[  117  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

father,  but  Muir's  Lake  by  the  neighbors,  is 
one  of  the  many  small  glacier  lakes  that  adorn 
the  Wisconsin  landscapes.  It  is  fed  by  twenty 
or  thirty  meadow  springs,  is  about  half  a  mile 
long,  half  as  wide,  and  surrounded  by  low 
finely-modeled  hills  dotted  with  oak  and  hick- 
ory, and  meadows  full  of  grasses  and  sedges 
and  many  beautiful  orchids  and  ferns.  First 
there  is  a  zone  of  green,  shining  rushes,  and 
just  beyond  the  rushes  a  zone  of  white  and 
orange  water-lilies  fifty  or  sixty  feet  wide  form- 
ing a  magnificent  border.  On  bright  days,  when 
the  lake  was  rippled  by  a  breeze,  the  lilies  and 
sun-spangles  danced  together  in  radiant  beauty, 
and  it  became  difficult  to  discriminate  between 
them. 

On  Sundays,  after  or  before  chores  and  ser- 
mons and  Bible-lessons,  we  drifted  about  on 
the  lake  for  hours,  especially  in  lily  time,  get- 
ting finest  lessons  and  sermons  from  the  water 
and  flowers,  ducks,  fishes,  and  muskratsX  In 
particular  we  took  Christ's  advice  and  de- 
voutly "considered  the  lilies"  —  how  they 
[  118  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

grow  up  in  beauty  out  of  gray  lime  mud,  and 
ride  gloriously  among  the  breezy  sun-spangles. 
On  our  way  home  we  gathered  grand  bouquets 
of  them  to  be  kept  fresh  all  the  week.  No 
flower  was  hailed  with  greater  wonder  and 
admiration  by  the  European  settlers  in  general 
—  Scotch,  English,  and  Irish  —  than  this  white 
water-lily  (Nymphcea  odor  aid).  It  is  a  magni- 
ficent plant,  queen  of  the  inland  waters,  pure 
white,  three  or  four  inches  in  diameter,  the 
most  beautiful,  sumptuous,  and  deliciously 
fragrant  of  all  our  Wisconsin  flowers.  No  lily 
garden  in  civilization  we  had  ever  seen  could 
compare  with  our  lake  garden. 

The  next  most  admirable  flower  in  the  esti- 
mation of  settlers  in  this  part  of  the  new  world 
was  the  pasque-flower  or  wind-flower  (Ane-  // 
mone  patens  var.  Nuttalliand).  It  is  the  very 
first  to  appear  in  the  spring,  covering  the  cold 
gray-black  ground  with  cheery  blossoms.  Be- 
fore the  axe  or  plough  had  touched  the  "oak 
openings"  of  Wisconsin,  they  were  swept  by 
running  fires  almost  every  autumn  after  the 
[  119  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

grass  became  dry.  If  from  any  cause,  such  as 
early  snowstorms  or  late  rains,  they  happened 
to  escape  the  autumn  fire  besom,  they  were 
likely  to  be  burned  in  the  spring  after  the  snow 
melted.  But  whether  burned  in  the  spring  or 
fall,  ashes  and  bits  of  charred  twigs  and  grass 
stems  made  the  whole  country  look  dismal. 
Then,  before  a  single  grass-blade  had  sprouted, 
a  hopeful  multitude  of  large  hairy,  silky  buds 
about  as  thick  as  one's  thumb  came  to  light, 
pushing  up  through  the  black  and  gray  ashes 
and  cinders,  and  before  these  buds  were  fairly 
free  from  the  ground  they  opened  wide  and  dis- 
played purple  blossoms  about  two  inches  in 
diameter,  giving  beauty  for  ashes  in  glorious 
abundance.  Instead  of  remaining  in  the 
ground  waiting  for  warm  weather  and  com- 
panions, this  admirable  plant  seemed  to  be  in 
haste  to  rise  and  cheer  the  desolate  landscape. 
Then  at  its  leisure,  after  other  plants  had  come 
to  its  help,  it  spread  its  leaves  and  grew  up  to  a 
height  of  about  two  or  three  feet.  The  spread- 
ing leaves  formed  a  whorl  on  the  ground,  and 
[  120  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

another  about  the  middle  of  the  stem  as  an 
involucre,  and  on  the  top  of  the  stem  the  silky, 
hairy  long-tailed  seeds  formed  a  head  like  a 
second  flower.  A  little  church  was  established 
among  the  earlier  settlers  and  the  meetings  at 
first  were  held  in  our  house.  After  working 
hard  all  the  week  it  was  difficult  for  boys  to  sit 
still  through  long  sermons  without  falling 
asleep,  especially  in  warm  weather.  In  this 
drowsy  trouble  the  charming  anemone  came 
to  our  help.  A  pocketful  of  the  pungent  seeds 
industriously  nibbled  while  the  discourses 
were  at  their  dullest  kept  us  awake  and  filled 
our  minds  with  flowers. 

The  next  great  flower  wonders  on  which  we 
lavished  admiration,  not  only  for  beauty  of 
color  and  size,  but  for  their  curious  shapes, 
were  the  cypripediums,  called  "lady's-slippers" 
or  "Indian  moccasins."  They  were  so  different 
from  the  familiar  flowers  of  old  Scotland. 
Several  species  grew  in  our  meadow  and  on 
shady  hillsides,  —  yellow,  rose-colored,  and 
some  nearly  white,  an  inch  or  more  in  diameter, 
[  121  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

and  shaped  exactly  like  Indian  moccasins. 
They  caught  the  eye  of  all  the  European 
settlers  and  made  them  gaze  and  wonder  like 
children.  And  so  did  calopogon,  pogonia,  spir- 
anthes,  and  many  other  fine  plant  people  that 
lived  in  our  meadow.  The  beautiful  Turk's- 
turban  (Lilium  superbum)  growing  on  stream- 
banks  was  rare  in  our  neighborhood,  but  the 
orange  lily  grew  in  abundance  on  dry  ground 
beneath  the  bur-oaks  and  often  brought  Aunt 
Ray's  lily-bed  in  Scotland  to  mind.  The 
butterfly-weed,  with  its  brilliant  scarlet  flow- 
ers, attracted  flocks  of  butterflies  and  made  fine 
masses  of  color.  With  autumn  came  a  glorious 
abundance  and  variety  of  asters,  those  beauti- 
ful plant  stars,  together  with  goldenrods,  sun- 
flowers, daisies,  and  liatris  of  different  species, 
while  around  the  shady  margin  of  the  meadow 
many  ferns  in  beds  and  vaselike  groups  spread 
their  beautiful  fronds,  especially  the  osmundas 
(0.  claytoniana,  regalis,  and  cinnamomea)  and 
the  sensitive  and  ostrich  ferns. 

Early  in  summer  we  feasted  on  strawberries, 

[    122    ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

that  grew  in  rich  beds  beneath  the  meadow 
grasses  and  sedges  as  well  as  in  the  dry  sunny 
woods.  And  in  different  bogs  and  marshes,  and 
around  their  borders  on  our  own  farm  and 
along  the  Fox  River,  we  found  dewberries  and 
cranberries,  and  a  glorious  profusion  of  huckle- 
berries, the  fountain-heads  of  pies  of  wondrous 
taste  and  size,  colored  in  the  heart  like  sunsets. 
Nor  were  we  slow  to  discover  the  value  of  the 
hickory  trees  yielding  both  sugar  and  nuts. 
We  carefully  counted  the  different  kinds  on 
our  farm,  and  every  morning  when  we  could 
steal  a  few  minutes  before  breakfast  after  doing 
the  chores,  we  visited  the  trees  that  had  been 
wounded  by  the  axe,  to  scrape  off  and  enjoy 
the  thick  white  delicious  syrup  that  exuded 
from  them,  and  gathered  the  nuts  as  they  fell 
in  the  mellow  Indian  summer,  making  haste  to 
get  a  fair  share  with  the  sapsuckers  and  squir- 
rels. The  hickory  makes  fine  masses  of  color 
in  the  fall,  every  leaf  a  flower,  but  it  was  the 
sweet  sap  and  sweet  nuts  that  first  interested  us. 
No  harvest  in  the  Wisconsin  woods  was  ever 
[  123  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

gathered  with  more  pleasure  and  care.  Also, 
to  our  delight,  we  found  plenty  of  hazelnuts, 
and  in  a  few  places  abundance  of  wild  apples. 
They  were  desperately  sour,  and  we  used  to  fill 
our  pockets  with  them  and  dare  each  other  to 
eat  one  without  making  a  face,  —  no  easy  feat. 
/  One  hot  summer  day  father  told  us  that  we 
ought  to  learn  to  swim.  This  was  one  of  the 
most  interesting  suggestions  he  had  ever 
offered,  but  precious  little  time  was  allowed 
for  trips  to  the  lake,  and  he  seldom  tried  to  show 
us  how.  "Go  to  the  frogs,"  he  said,  "and  they 
will  give  you  all  the  lessons  you  need.  Watch 
their  arms  and  legs  and  see  how  smoothly  they 
kick  themselves  along  and  dive  and  come  up. 
When  you  want  to  dive,  keep  your  arms  by 
your  side  or  over  your  head,  and  kick,  and  when 
you  want  to  come  up,  let  your  legs  drag  and 
paddle  with  your  hands." 

We  found  a  little  basin  among  the  rushes  at 

the  south  end  of  the  lake,  about  waist-deep  and 

a  rod  or  two  wide,  shaped  like  a  sunfish's  nest. 

Here  we  kicked  and  plashed  for  many  a  lesson, 

[  124  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

faithfully  trying  to  imitate  frogs;  but  the 
smooth,  comfortable  sliding  gait  of  our  amphi- 
bious teachers  seemed  hopelessly  hard  to  learn. 
When  we  tried  to  kick  frog-fashion,  down  went 
our  heads  as  if  weighted  with  lead  the  moment 
our  feet  left  the  ground.  One  day  it  occurred 
to  me  to  hold  my  breath  as  long  as  I  could  and 
let  my  head  sink  as  far  as  it  liked  without  pay- 
ing any  attention  to  it,  and  try  to  swim  under 
the  water  instead  of  on  the  surface.  This 
method  was  a  great  success,  for  at  the  very 
first  trial  I  managed  to  cross  the  basin  without 
touching  bottom,  and  soon  learned  the  use  of 
my  limbs.  Then,  of  course,  swimming  with 
my  head  above  water  soon  became  so  easy  that 
it  seemed  perfectly  natural.  David  tried  the 
plan  with  the  same  success.  Then  we  began 
to  count  the  number  of  times  that  we  could 
swim  around  the  basin  without  stopping  to 
rest,  and  after  twenty  or  thirty  rounds  failed 
to  tire  us,  we  proudly  thought  that  a  little  more 
practice  would  make  us  about  as  amphibious 
as  frogs. 

[  125  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

On  the  fourth  of  July  of  this  swimming  year 
one  of  the  Lawson  boys  came  to  visit  us,  and 
we  went  down  to  the  lake  to  spend  the  great 
warm  day  with  the  fishes  and  ducks  and  turtles. 
After  gliding  about  on  the  smooth  mirror 
water,  telling  stories  and  enjoying  the  com- 
pany of  the  happy  creatures  about  us,  we  rowed 
to  our  bathing-pool,  and  David  and  I  went  in 
for  a  swim,  while  our  companion  fished  from 
the  boat  a  little  way  out  beyond  the  rushes. 
After  a  few  turns  in  the  pool,  it  occurred  to 
me  that  it  was  now  about  time  to  try  deep 
water.  Swimming  through  the  thick  growth  of 
rushes  and  lilies  was  somewhat  dangerous,  es- 
pecially for  a  beginner,  because  one's  arms  and 
legs  might  be  entangled  among  the  long,  limber 
stems;  nevertheless  I  ventured  and  struck  out 
boldly  enough  for  the  boat,  where  the  water 
was  twenty  or  thirty  feet  deep.  When  I 
reached  the  end  of  the  little  skiff  I  raised 
my  right  hand  to  take  hold  of  it  to  surprise 
Lawson,  whose  back  was  toward  me  and  who 
was  not  aware  of  my  approach;  but  I  failed 
[  126  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

to  reach  high  enough,  and,  of  course,  the  weight 
of  my  arm  and  the  stroke  against  the  over- 
leaning  stern  of  the  boat  shoved  me  down  and 
I  sank,  struggling,  frightened  and  confused. 
As  soon  as  my  feet  touched  the  bottom,  I 
slowly  rose  to  the  surface,  but  before  I  could 
get  breath  enough  to  call  for  help,  sank  back 
again  and  lost  all  control  of  myself.  After  sink- 
ing and  rising  I  don't  know  how  many  times, 
some  water  got  into  my  lungs  and  I  began  to 
drown.  Then  suddenly  my  mind  seemed  to 
clear.  I  remembered  that  I  could  swim  under 
water,  and,  making  a  desperate  struggle  toward 
the  shore,  I  reached  a  point  where  with  my 
toes  on  the  bottom  I  got  my  mouth  above  the 
surface,  gasped  for  help,  and  was  pulled  into 
the  boat. 

This  humiliating  accident  spoiled  the  day, 
and  we  all  agreed  to  keep  it  a  profound  secret. 
My  sister  Sarah  had  heard  my  cry  for  help, 
and  on  our  arrival  at  the  house  inquired  what 
had  happened.  "Were  you  drowning,  John  ?  I 
heard  you  cry  you  couldna  get  oot."  Lawson 
[  127  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

made  haste  to  reply,  "Oh,  no!  He  was  juist 
haverin  (making  fun)." 

I  was  very  much  ashamed  of  myself,  and  at 
night,  after  calmly  reviewing  the  affair,  con- 
cluded that  there  had  been  no  reasonable  cause 
for  the  accident,  and  that  I  ought  to  punish 
myself  for  so  nearly  losing  my  life  from  unmanly 
fear.  Accordingly  at  the  very  first  opportunity, 
I  stole  away  to  the  lake  by  myself,  got  into  my 
boat,  and  instead  of  going  back  to  the  old 
swimming-bowl  for  further  practice,  or  to  try 
to  do  sanely  and  well  what  I  had  so  ignomini- 
ously  failed  to  do  in  my  first  adventure,  that 
is,  to  swim  out  through  the  rushes  and  lilies, 
I  rowed  directly  out  to  the  middle  of  the  lake, 
stripped,  stood  up  on  the  seat  in  the  stern,  and 
with  grim  deliberation  took  a  header  and  dove 
straight  down  thirty  or  forty  feet,  turned  easily, 
and,  letting  my  feet  drag,  paddled  straight  to 
the  surface  with  my  hands  as  father  had  at 
first  directed  me  to  do.  I  then  swam  round  the 
boat,  glorying  in  my  suddenly  acquired  confid- 
ence and  victory  over  myself,  climbed  into  it, 
[  128  ] 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

and  dived  again,  with  the  same  triumphant 
success.  I  think  I  went  down  four  or  five  times, 
and  each  time  as  I  made  the  dive-spring 
shouted  aloud,  "Take  that!"  feeling  that  I 
was  getting  most  gloriously  even  with  myself. 

Never  again  from  that  day  to  this  have  I 
lost  control  of  myself  in  water.  If  suddenly 
thrown  overboard  at  sea  in  the  dark,  or  even 
while  asleep,  I  think  I  would  immediately  right 
myself  in  a  way  some  would  call  "instinct," 
rise  among  the  waves,  catch  my  breath,  and 
try  to  plan  what  would  better  be  done.  Never 
was  victory  over  self  more  complete.  I  have 
been  a  good  swimmer  ever  since.  At  a  slow 
gait  I  think  I  could  swim  all  day  in  smooth 
water  moderate  in  temperature.  When  I  was 
a  student  at  Madison,  I  used  to  go  on  long 
swimming-journeys,  called  exploring  expedi- 
tions, along  the  south  shore  of  Lake  Mendota, 
on  Saturdays,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with 
another  amphibious  explorer  by  the  name  of 
Fuller. 

My  adventures  in  Fountain  Lake  call  to 
[  129  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

mind  the  story  of  a  boy  who  in  climbing  a  tree 
to  rob  a  crow's  nest  fell  and  broke  his  leg,  but 
as  soon  as  it  healed  compelled  himself  to  climb 
to  the  top  of  the  tree  he  had  fallen  from. 

Like  Scotch  children  in  general  we  were 
taught  grim  self-denial,  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  to  mortify  the  flesh,  keep  our  bodies  in 
subjection  to  Bible  laws,  and  mercilessly  pun- 
ish ourselves  for  every  fault  imagined  or  com- 
mitted. A  little  boy,  while  helping  his  sister 
to  drive  home  the  cows,  happened  to  use  a  for- 
bidden word.  "I '11  have  to  tell  fayther  on  ye," 
said  the  horrified  sister.  "I'll  tell  him  that  ye 
said  a  bad  word."  "Weel,"  said  the  boy,  by 
way  of  excuse,  "  I  couldna  help  the  word  comin' 
into  me,  and  it's  na  waur  to  speak  it  oot  than 
to  let  it  rin  through  ye." 

A  Scotch  fiddler  playing  at  a  wedding  drank 
so  much  whiskey  that  on  the  way  home  he 
fell  by  the  roadside.  In  the  morning  he  was 
ashamed  and  angry  and  determined  to  punish 
himself.  Making  haste  to  the  house  of  a  friend, 
a  gamekeeper,  he  called  him  out,  and  requested 
[  130  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

the  loan  of  a  gun.  The  alarmed  gamekeeper, 
not  liking  the  fiddler's  looks  and  voice,  anx- 
iously inquired  what  he  was  going  to  do  with 
it.  "Surely,"  said  he,  "you're  no  gan  to  shoot 
yoursel."  "No-o,"  with  characteristic  candor 
replied  the  penitent  fiddler,  "I  dinna  think  that 
I'll  juist  exactly  kill  mysel,  but  I'm  gaun  to 
tak  a  dander  doon  the  burn  (brook)  wi'  the 
gun  and  gie  mysel  a  deevil  o'  a  fleg  (fright)." 

One  calm  summer  evening  a  red-headed 
woodpecker  was  drowned  in  our  lake.  The 
accident  happened  at  the  south  end,  opposite 
our  memorable  swimming-hole,  a  few  rods  from 
the  place  where  I  came  so  near  being  drowned 
years  before.  I  had  returned  to  the  old  home 
during  a  summer  vacation  of  the  State  Uni- 
versity, and,  having  made  a  beginning  in  bot- 
any, I  was,  of  course,  full  of  enthusiasm  and  ran 
eagerly  to  my  beloved  pogonia,  calopogon,  and 
cypripedium  gardens,  osmunda  ferneries,  and 
the  lake  lilies  and  pitcher-plants.  A  little  before 
sundown  the  day-breeze  died  away,  and  the 
lake,  reflecting  the  wooded  hills  like  a  mirror, 
I  131  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

was  dimpled  and  dotted  and  streaked  here  and 
there  where  fishes  and  turtles  were  poking  out 
their  heads  and  muskrats  were  sculling  them- 
selves along  with  their  flat  tails  making  glitter- 
ing tracks.  After  lingering  a  while,  dreamily 
recalling  the  old,  hard,  half-happy  days,  and 
watching  my  favorite  red-headed  woodpeckers 
pursuing  moths  like  regular  flycatchers,  I 
swam  out  through  the  rushes  and  up  the  middle 
of  the  lake  to  the  north  end  and  back,  gliding 
slowly,  looking  about  me,  enjoying  the  scenery 
as  I  would  in  a  saunter  along  the  shore,  and 
studying  the  habits  of  the  animals  as  they  were 
explained  and  recorded  on  the  smooth  glassy 
water. 

On  the  way  back,  when  I  was  within  a  hun- 
dred rods  or  so  of  the  end  of  my  voyage,  I 
noticed  a  peculiar  plashing  disturbance  that 
could  not,  I  thought,  be  made  by  a  jumping 
fish  or  any  other  inhabitant  of  the  lake;  for  in- 
stead of  low  regular  out-circling  ripples  such  as 
are  made  by  the  popping  up  of  a  head,  or  like 
those  raised  by  the  quick  splash  of  a  leaping 
[  132  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

fish,  or  diving  loon  or  muskrat,  a  continuous 
struggle  was  kept  up  for  several  minutes  ere 
the  outspreading,  interfering  ring-waves  began 
to  die  away.  Swimming  hastily  to  the  spot  to 
try  to  discover  what  had  happened,  I  found  one 
of  my  woodpeckers  floating  motionless  with 
outspread  wings.  All  was  over.  Had  I  been  a 
minute  or  two  earlier,  I  might  have  saved  him. 
He  had  glanced  on  the  water  I  suppose  in  pur- 
suit of  a  moth,  was  unable  to  rise  from  it,  and 
died  struggling,  as  I  nearly  did  at  this  same  spot. 
Like  me  he  seemed  to  have  lost  his  mind  in 
blind  confusion  and  fear.  The  water  was  warm, 
and  had  he  kept  still  with  his  head  a  little  above 
the  surface,  he  would  sooner  or  later  have  been 
wafted  ashore.  The  best  aimed  flights  of  birds 
and  man  "gang  aft  agley,"  but  this  was  the 
first  case  I  had  witnessed  of  a  bird  losing  its 
life  by  drowning. 

Doubtless  accidents  to  animals  are  far  more 
common  than  is  generally  known.  I  have  seen 
quails  killed  by  flying  against  our  house  when 
suddenly  startled.  Some  birds  get  entangled 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

in  hairs  of  their  own  nests  and  die.  Once  I 
found  a  poor  snipe  in  our  meadow  that  was 
unable  to  fly  on  account  of  difficult  egg-birth. 
Pitying  the  poor  mother,  I  picked  her  up  out 
of  the  grass  and  helped  her  as  gently  as  I  could, 
and  as  soon  as  the  egg  was  born  she  flew  gladly 
away.  Oftentimes  I  have  thought  it  strange 
that  one  could  walk  through  the  woods  and 
mountains  and  plains  for  years  without  see- 
ing a  single  blood-spot.  Most  wild  animals 
get  into  the  world  and  out  of  it  without  being 
noticed.  Nevertheless  we  at  last  sadly  learn 
that  they  are  all  subject  to  the  vicissitudes  of 
fortune  like  ourselves.  Many  birds  lose  their 
lives  in  storms.  I  remember  a  particularly 
severe  Wisconsin  winter,  when  the  temperature 
was  many  degrees  below  zero  and  the  snow  was 
deep,  preventing  the  quail,  which  feed  on  the 
ground,  from  getting  anything  like  enough  of 
food,  as  was  pitifully  shown  by  a  flock  I  found 
on  our  farm  frozen  solid  in  a  thicket  of  oak 
sprouts.  They  were  in  a  circle  about  a  foot 
wide,  with  their  heads  outward,  packed  close 
[  134  1 


Life  on  a  Wisconsin  Farm 

together  for  warmth.  Yet  all  had  died  without 
a  struggle,  perhaps  more  from  starvation  than 
frost.  Many  small  birds  lose  their  lives  in  the 
storms  of  early  spring,  or  even  summer.  One 
mild  spring  morning  I  picked  up  more  than  a 
score  out  of  the  grass  and  flowers,  most  of  them 
darling  singers  that  had  perished  in  a  sudden 
storm  of  sleety  rain  and  hail. 

In  a  hollow  at  the  foot  of  an  oak  tree  that  I 
had  chopped  down  one  cold  winter  day,  I 
found  a  poor  ground  squirrel  frozen  solid  in  its 
snug  grassy  nest,  in  the  middle  of  a  store  of 
nearly  a  peck  of  wheat  it  had  carefully  gathered. 
I  carried  it  home  and  gradually  thawed  and 
warmed  it  in  the  kitchen,  hoping  it  would  come 
to  life  like  a  pickerel  I  caught  in  our  lake 
through  a  hole  in  the  ice,  which,  after  being 
frozen  as  hard  as  a  bone  and  thawed  at  the  fire- 
side, squirmed  itself  out  of  the  grasp  of  the 
cook  when  she  began  to  scrape  it,  bounced  off 
the  table,  and  danced  about  on  the  floor,  mak-  { 
ing  wonderful  springy  jumps  as  if  trying  to 
find  its  way  back  home  to  the  lake.  But  for 
[  135  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

the  poor  spermophile  nothing  I  could  do  in  the 
way  of  revival  was  of  any  avail.  Its  life  had 
passed  away  without  the  slightest  struggle,  as 
it  lay  asleep  curled  up  like  a  ball,  with  its  tail 
wrapped  about  it. 


IV 

A  PARADISE  OF   BIRDS 

Bird  Favorites  — The  Prairie  Chickens  —  Water-Fowl  — 
A  Loon  on  the  Defensive  —  Passenger  Pigeons. 

THE  Wisconsin  oak  openings  were  a 
summer  paradise  for  song  birds,  and 
a  fine  place  to  get  acquainted  with 
them ;  for  the  trees  stood  wide  apart,  allowing 
one  to  see  the  happy  homeseekers  as  they  ar- 
rived in  the  spring,  their  mating,  nest-build- 
ing, the  brooding  and  feeding  of  the  young,  and, 
after  they  were  full-fledged  and  strong,  to  see 
all  the  families  of  the  neighborhood  gather- 
ing and  getting  ready  to  leave  in  the  fall. 
Excepting  the  geese  and  ducks  and  pigeons 
nearly  all  our  summer  birds  arrived  singly  or  in 
small  draggled  flocks,  but  when  frost  and  fall- 
ing leaves  brought  their  winter  homes  to  mind 
they  assembled  in  large  flocks  on  dead  or  leafless 
trees  by  the  side  of  a  meadow  or  field,  perhaps 
[  i37  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

to  get  acquainted  and  talk  the  thing  over. 
Some  species  held  regular  daily  meetings  for 
several  weeks  before  finally  setting  forth  on 
their  long  southern  journeys.  Strange  to  say, 
we  never  saw  them  start.  Some  morning  we 
would  find  them  gone.  Doubtless  they  mi- 
grated in  the  night  time.  Comparatively  few 
species  remained  all  winter,  the  nuthatch, 
chickadee,  owl,  prairie  chicken,  quail,  and  a 
few  stragglers  from  the  main  flocks  of  ducks, 
jays,  hawks,  and  bluebirds.  Only  after  the 
country  was  settled  did  either  jays  or  bluebirds 
winter  with  us. 

The  brave,  frost -defying  chickadees  and 
nuthatches  stayed  all  the  year  wholly  inde- 
pendent of  farms  and  man's  food  and  affairs. 

With  the  first  hints  of  spring  came  the  brave 
little  bluebirds,  darling  singers  as  blue  as  the 
best  sky,  and  of  course  we  all  loved  them.  Their 
rich,  crispy  warbling  is  perfectly  delightful, 
soothing  and  cheering,  sweet  and  whisperingly 
low,  Nature's  fine  love  touches,  every  note 
going  straight  home  into  one's  heart.  And 
[  138  ] 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

withal  they  are  hardy  and  brave,  fearless 
fighters  in  defense  of  home.  When  we  boys 
approached  their  knot-hole  nests,  the  bold 
little  fellows  kept  scolding  and  diving  at  us  and 
tried  to  strike  us  in  the  face,  and  oftentimes 
we  were  afraid  they  would  prick  our  eyes.  But 
the  boldness  of  the  little  housekeepers  only 
made  us  love  them  the  more. 

None  of  the  bird  people  of  Wisconsin  wel- 
comed us  more  heartily  than  the  common 
robin.  Far  from  showing  alarm  at  the  coming 
of  settlers  into  their  native  woods,  they  reared 
their  young  around  our  gardens  as  if  they  liked 
us,  and  how  heartily  we  admired  the  beauty 
and  fine  manners  of  these  graceful  birds  and 
their  loud  cheery  song  of  Fear  not,  fear  not,  cheer 
up,  cheer  up.  It  was  easy  to  love  them  for  they 
reminded  us  of  the  robin  redbreast  of  Scotland. 
Like  the  bluebirds  they  dared  every  danger  in 
defense  of  home,  and  we  often  wondered  that 
birds  so  gentle  could  be  so  bold  and  that  sweet- 
voiced  singers  could  so  fiercely  fight  and  scold. 

Of  all  the  great  singers  that  sweeten  Wiscon- 
[  139  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

sin  one  of  the  best  known  and  best  loved  is  the 
brown  thrush  or  thrasher,  strong  and  able 
without  being  familiar,  and  easily  seen  and 
heard.  Rosy  purple  evenings  after  thunder- 
showers  are  the  favorite  song-times,  when  the 
winds  have  died  away  and  the  steaming  ground 
and  the  leaves  and  flowers  fill  the  air  with  fra- 
grance. Then  the  male  makes  haste  to  the  top- 
most spray  of  an  oak  tree  and  sings  loud  and 
clear  with  delightful  enthusiasm  until  sun- 
down, mostly  I  suppose  for  his  mate  sitting  on 
the  precious  eggs  in  a  brush  heap.  And  how 
faithful  and  watchful  and  daring  he  is!  Woe 
to  the  snake  or  squirrel  that  ventured  to  go 
nigh  the  nest!  We  often  saw  him  diving  on 
them,  pecking  them  about  the  head  and  driv- 
ing them  away  as  bravely  as  the  kingbird 
drives  away  hawks.  Their  rich  and  varied 
strains  make  the  air  fairly  quiver.  We  boys 
often  tried  to  interpret  the  wild  ringing  mel- 
ody and  put  it  into  words. 

After  the  arrival  of  the  thrushes  came  the 
bobolinks,    gushing,    gurgling,    inexhaustible 
[  140  ] 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

fountains  of  song,  pouring  forth  floods  of  sweet 
notes  over  the  broad  Fox  River  meadows  in 
wonderful  variety  and  volume,  crowded  and 
mixed  beyond  description,  as  they  hovered  on 
quivering  wings  above  their  hidden  nests  in 
the  grass.  It  seemed  marvelous  to  us  that  birds 
so  moderate  in  size  could  hold  so  much  of  this 
wonderful  song  stuff.  Each  one  of  them  poured 
forth  music  enough  for  a  whole  flock,  singing 
as  if  its  whole  body,  feathers  and  all,  were  made 
up  of  music,  flowing,  glowing,  bubbling  melody 
interpenetrated  here  and  there  with  small  scin- 
tillating prickles  and  spicules.  We  never  became 
so  intimately  acquainted  with  the  bobolinks  as 
with  the  thrushes,  for  they  lived  far  out  on  the 
broad  Fox  River  meadows,  while  the  thrushes 
sang  on  the  tree-tops  around  every  home.  The 
bobolinks  were  among  the  first  of  our  great 
singers  to  leave  us  in  the  fall,  going  apparently 
direct  to  the  rice-fields  of  the  Southern  States, 
where  they  grew  fat  and  were  slaughtered  in 
countless  numbers  for  food.  Sad  fate  for  singers 
so  purely  divine. 

[  Hi  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

One  of  the  gayest  of  the  singers  is  the  red- 
wing blackbird.  In  the  spring,  when  his  scarlet 
epaulets  shine  brightest,  and  his  little  modest 
gray  wife  is  sitting  on  the  nest,  built  on  rushes 
in  a  swamp,  he  sits  on  a  nearby  oak  and  de- 
votedly sings  almost  all  day.  His  rich  simple 
strain  is  baumpalee,  baumpalee,  or  bobalee  as 
interpreted  by  some.  In  summer,  after  nesting 
cares  are  over,  they  assemble  in  flocks  of  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  to  feast  on  Indian  corn 
when  it  is  in  the  milk.  Scattering  over  a  field, 
each  selects  an  ear,  strips  the  husk  down  far 
enough  to  lay  bare  an  inch  or  two  of  the  end 
of  it,  enjoys  an  exhilarating  feast,  and  after  all 
are  full  they  rise  simultaneously  with  a  quick 
birr  of  wings  like  an  old-fashioned  church  con- 
gregation fluttering  to  their  feet  when  the  min- 
ister after  giving  out  the  hymn  says,  "Let  the 
congregation  arise  and  sing."  Alighting  on 
nearby  trees,  they  sing  with  a  hearty  vengeance, 
bursting  out  without  any  puttering  prelude  in 
gloriously  glad  concert,  hundreds  or  thousands 
of  exulting  voices  with  sweet  gurgling  baumpa- 
[  142  ] 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

lees  mingled  with  chippy  vibrant  and  exploding 
globules  of  musical  notes,  making  a  most  enthu- 
siastic, indescribable  joy-song,  a  combination 
unlike  anything  to  be  heard  elsewhere  in  the 
bird  kingdom;  something  like  bagpipes,  flutes, 
violins,  pianos,  and  human -like  voices  all 
bursting  and  bubbling  at  once.  Then  suddenly 
some  one  of  the  joyful  congregation  shouts 
Chirr!  Chirr!  and  all  stop  as  if  shot. 

The  sweet-voiced  meadowlark  with  its  placid, 
simple  song  of  peery-eery-odical  was  another 
favorite,  and  we  soon  learned  to  admire  the 
Baltimore  oriole  and  its  wonderful  hanging 
nests,  and  the  scarlet  tanager  glowing  like  fire 
amid  the  green  leaves. 

But  no  singer  of  them  all  got  farther  into 
our  hearts  than  the  little  speckle-breasted  song 
sparrow,  one  of  the  first  to  arrive  and  begin 
nest-building  and  singing.  The  richness,  sweet- 
ness, and  pathos  of  this  small  darling's  song  as 
he  sat  on  a  low  bush  often  brought  tears  to  our 
eyes. 

The  little  cheery,  modest  chickadee  midget, 
[  i43  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

loved  by  every  innocent  boy  and  girl,  man  and 
woman,  and  by  many  not  altogether  innocent, 
was  one  of  the  first  of  the  birds  to  attract  our 
attention,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  us  as 
the  winter  advanced,  bravely  singing  his  faint 
silvery,  lisping,  tinkling  notes  ending  with  a 
bright  dee,  dee,  dee!  however  frosty  the  weather. 
The  nuthatches,  who  also  stayed  all  winter 
with  us,  were  favorites  with  us  boys.  We  loved 
to  watch  them  as  they  traced  the  bark-furrows 
of  the  oaks  and  hickories  head  downward, 
deftly  flicking  off  loose  scales  and  splinters  in 
search  of  insects,  and  braving  the  coldest 
weather  as  if  their  little  sparks  of  life  were  as 
safely  warm  in  winter  as  in  summer,  unquench- 
able by  the  severest  frost.  With  the  help  of  the 
chickadees  they  made  a  delightful  stir  in  the 
solemn  winter  days,  and  when  we  were  out 
chopping  we  never  ceased  to  wonder  how  their 
slender  naked  toes  could  be  kept  warm  when 
our  own  were  so  painfully  frosted  though  clad 
in  thick  socks  and  boots.  And  we  wondered 
and  admired  the  more  when  we  thought  of  the 
[  i44  I 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

little  midgets  sleeping  in  knot-holes  when  the 
temperature  was  far  below  zero,  sometimes 
thirty-five  degrees  below,  and  in  the  morning, 
after  a  minute  breakfast  of  a  few  frozen  in- 
sects and  hoarfrost  crystals,  playing  and  chat- 
ting in  cheery  tones  as  if  food,  weather,  and 
everything  was  according  to  their  own  warm 
hearts.  Our  Yankee  told  us  that  the  name  of 
this  darling  was  Devil-downhead. 

Their  big  neighbors  the  owls  also  made  good 
winter  music,  singing  out  loud  in  wild,  gallant 
strains  bespeaking  brave  comfort,  let  the  frost 
bite  as  it  might.  The  solemn  hooting  of  the 
species  with  the  widest  throat  seemed  to  us  the 
very  wildest  of  all  the  winter  sounds. 

Prairie  chickens  came  strolling  in  family 
flocks  about  the  shanty,  picking  seeds  and 
grasshoppers  like  domestic  fowls,  and  they 
became  still  more  abundant  as  wheat-  and  corn- 
fields were  multiplied,  but  also  wilder,  of  course, 
when  every  shotgun  in  the  country  was  aimed 
at  them.  The  booming  of  the  males  during  the 
mating-season  was  one  of  the  loudest  and 
I  145  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

strangest  of  the  early  spring  sounds,  being 
easily  heard  on  calm  mornings  at  a  distance  of 
a  half  or  three  fourths  of  a  mile.  As  soon  as  the 
snow  was  off  the  ground,  they  assembled  in 
flocks  of  a  dozen  or  two  on  an  open  spot,  usu- 
ally on  the  side  of  a  ploughed  field,  ruffled  up 
their  feathers,  inflated  the  curious  colored 
sacks  on  the  sides  of  their  necks,  and  strutted 
about  with  queer  gestures  something  like  tur- 
key gobblers,  uttering  strange  loud,  rounded, 
drumming  calls,  —  boom!  boom!  boom!  inter- 
rupted by  choking  sounds.  My  brother  Daniel 
caught  one  while  she  was  sitting  on  her  nest  in 
our  corn-field.  The  young  are  just  like  domestic 
chicks,  run  with  the  mother  as  soon  as  hatched, 
and  stay  with  her  until  autumn,  feeding  on  the 
ground,  never  taking  wing  unless  disturbed. 
In  winter,  when  full-grown,  they  assemble  in 
large  flocks,  fly  about  sundown  to  selected 
roosting-places  on  tall  trees,  and  to  feeding- 
places  in  the  morning,  —  unhusked  corn-fields, 
if  any  are  to  be  found  in  the  neighborhood,  or 
thickets  of  dwarf  birch  and  willows,  the  buds 
[  146  1 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

of  which  furnish  a  considerable  part  of  their 
food  when  snow  covers  the  ground. 

The  wild  rice-marshes  along  the  Fox  River 
and  around  Pucaway  Lake  were  the  summer 
homes  of  millions  of  ducks,  and  in  the  Indian 
summer,  when  the  rice  was  ripe,  they  grew  very 
fat.  The  magnificent  mallards  in  particular 
afforded  our  Yankee  neighbors  royal  feasts 
almost  without  price,  for  often  as  many  as  a 
half-dozen  were  killed  at  a  shot,  but  we  seldom 
were  allowed  a  single  hour  for  hunting  and  so 
got  very  few.  The  autumn  duck  season  was  a 
glad  time  for  the  Indians  also,  for  they  feasted 
and  grew  fat  not  only  on  the  ducks  but  on  the 
wild  rice,  large  quantities  of  which  they  gath- 
ered as  they  glided  through  the  midst  of  the 
generous  crop  in  canoes,  bending  down  hand- 
fuls  over  the  sides,  and  beating  out  the  grain 
with  small  paddles. 

The  warmth  of  the  deep  spring  fountains  of 

the  creek  in  our  meadow  kept  it  open  all  the 

year,  and  a  few  pairs  of  wood  ducks,  the  most 

beautiful,  we  thought,  of  all  the  ducks,  win- 

[   147  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

tered  in  it.  I  well  remember  the  first  speci- 
men I  ever  saw.  Father  shot  it  in  the  creek  dur- 
ing a  snowstorm,  brought  it  into  the  house,  and 
called  us  around  him,  saying:  "Come,  bairns, 
and  admire  the  work  of  God  displayed  in  this 
bonnie  bird.  Naebody  but  God  could  paint 
feathers  like  these.  Juist  look  at  the  colors, 
hoo  they  shine,  and  hoo  fine  they  overlap  and 
blend  thegether  like  the  colors  o'  the  rain- 
bow/' And  we  all  agreed  that  never,  never  be- 
fore had  we  seen  so  awfu'  bonnie  a  bird.  A 
pair  nested  every  year  in  the  hollow  top  of  an 
oak  stump  about  fifteen  feet  high  that  stood  on 
the  side  of  the  meadow,  and  we  used  to  won- 
der how  they  got  the  fluffy  young  ones  down 
from  the  nest  and  across  the  meadow  to  the 
lake  when  they  were  only  helpless,  featherless 
midgets;  whether  the  mother  carried  them  to 
the  water  on  her  back  or  in  her  mouth.  I  never 
saw  the  thing  done  or  found  anybody  who  had 
until  this  summer,  when  Mr.  Holabird,  a  keen 
observer,  told  me  that  he  once  saw  the  mother 
carry  them  from  the  nest  tree  in  her  mouth, 
[  148  1 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

quickly  coming  and  going  to  a  nearby  stream, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  get  them  all  together 
and  proudly  sail  away. 

Sometimes  a  flock  of  swans  were  seen  passing 
over  at  a  great  height  on  their  long  journeys, 
and  we  admired  their  clear  bugle  notes,  but 
they  seldom  visited  any  of  the  lakes  in  our 
neighborhood,  so  seldom  that  when  they  did 
it  was  talked  of  for  years.  One  was  shot  by 
a  blacksmith  on  a  millpond  with  a  long-range 
Sharp's  rifle,  and  many  of  the  neighbors  went 
far  to  see  it. 

The  common  gray  goose,  Canada  honker, 
flying  in  regular  harrow-shaped  flocks,  was  one 
of  the  wildest  and  wariest  of  all  the  large  birds 
that  enlivened  the  spring  and  autumn.  They 
seldom  ventured  to  alight  in  our  small  lake, 
fearing,  I  suppose,  that  hunters  might  be  con- 
cealed in  the  rushes,  but  on  account  of  their 
fondness  for  the  young  leaves  of  winter  wheat 
when  they  were  a  few  inches  high,  they  often 
alighted  on  our  fields  when  passing  on  their 
way  south,  and  occasionally  even  in  our  corn- 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

fields  when  a  snowstorm  was  blowing  and  they 
were  hungry  and  wing-weary,  with  nearly  an 
inch  of  snow  on  their  backs.  In  such  times  of 
distress  we  used  to  pity  them,  even  while  trying 
to  get  a  shot  at  them.  They  were  exceedingly 
cautious  and  circumspect ;  usually  flew  several 
times  round  the  adjacent  thickets  and  fences 
to  make  sure  that  no  enemy  was  near  before 
settling  down,  and  one  always  stood  on  guard, 
relieved  from  time  to  time,  while  the  flock  was 
feeding.  Therefore  there  was  no  chance  to 
creep  up  on  them  unobserved;  you  had  to  be 
well  hidden  before  the  flock  arrived.  It  was  the 
ambition  of  boys  to  be  able  to  shoot  these  wary 
birds.  I  never  got  but  two,  both  of  them  at  one 
so-called  lucky  shot.  When  I  ran  to  pick  them 
up,  one  of  them  flew  away,  but  as  the  poor 
fellow  was  sorely  wounded  he  did  n't  fly  far. 
When  I  caught  him  after  a  short  chase,  he 
uttered  a  piercing  cry  of  terror  and  despair, 
which  the  leader  of  the  flock  heard  at  a  distance 
of  about  a  hundred  rods.  They  had  flown  off  in 
frightened  disorder,  of  course,  but  had  got  into 
[  150  1 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

the  regular  harrow-shape  order  when  the  leader 
heard  the  cry,  and  I  shall  never  forget  how 
bravely  he  left  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  flock 
and  hurried  back  screaming  and  struck  at  me 
in  trying  to  save  his  companion.  I  dodged  down 
and  held  my  hands  over  my  head,  and  thus 
escaped  a  blow  of  his  elbows.  Fortunately  I 
had  left  my  gun  at  the  fence,  and  the  life  of  this 
noble  bird  was  spared  after  he  had  risked  it  in 
trying  to  save  his  wounded  friend  or  neighbor 
or  family  relation.  For  so  shy  a  bird  boldly  to 
attack  a  hunter  showed  wonderful  sympathy 
and  courage.  This  is  one  of  my  strangest  hunt- 
ing experiences.  Never  before  had  I  regarded 
wild  geese  as  dangerous,  or  capable  of  such 
noble  self-sacrificing  devotion. 

The  loud  clear  call  of  the  handsome  bob- 
whites  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  and  most 
characteristic  of  our  spring  sounds,  and  we 
soon  learned  to  imitate  it  so  well  that  a  bold 
cock  often  accepted  our  challenge  and  came 
flying  to  fight.  The  young  run  as  soon  as  they 
are  hatched  and  follow  their  parents  until 
[  151  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

spring,  roosting  on  the  ground  in  a  close  bunch, 
heads  out  ready  to  scatter  and  fly.  These  fine 
birds  were  seldom  seen  when  we  first  arrived 
in  the  wilderness,  but  when  wheat-fields  sup- 
plied abundance  of  food  they  multiplied  very 
fast,  although  oftentimes  sore  pressed  during 
hard  winters  when  the  snow  reached  a  depth  of 
two  or  three  feet,  covering  their  food,  while  the 
mercury  fell  to  twenty  or  thirty  degrees  below 
zero.  Occasionally,  although  shy  on  account  of 
being  persistently  hunted,  under  pressure  of 
extreme  hunger  in  the  very  coldest  weather 
when  the  snow  was  deepest  they  ventured  into 
barnyards  and  even  approached  the  doorsteps 
of  houses,  searching  for  any  sort  of  scraps  and 
crumbs,  as  if  piteously  begging  for  food.  One 
of  our  neighbors  saw  a  flock  come  creeping  up 
through  the  snow,  unable  to  fly,  hardly  able  to 
walk,  and  while  approaching  the  door  several 
of  them  actually  fell  down  and  died;  showing 
that  birds,  usually  so  vigorous  and  apparently 
independent  of  fortune,  suffer  and  lose  their 
lives  in  extreme  weather  like  the  rest  of  us, 
[  152  ] 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

frozen  to  death  like  settlers  caught  in  blizzards. 
None  of  our  neighbors  perished  in  storms, 
though  many  had  feet,  ears,  and  fingers  frost- 
nipped  or  solidly  frozen. 

As  soon  as  the  lake  ice  melted,  we  heard  the 
lonely  cry  of  the  loon,  one  of  the  wildest  and 
most  striking  of  all  the  wilderness  sounds,  a 
strange,  sad,  mournful,  unearthly  cry,  half 
laughing,  half  wailing.  Nevertheless  the  great 
northern  diver,  as  our  species  is  called,  is  a 
brave,  hardy,  beautiful  bird,  able  to  fly  under 
water  about  as  well  as  above  it,  and  to  spear 
and  capture  the  swiftest  fishes  for  food.  Those 
that  haunted  our  lake  were  so  wary  none  was 
shot  for  years,  though  every  boy  hunter  in  the 
neighborhood  was  ambitious  to  get  one  to 
prove  his  skill.  On  one  of  our  bitter  cold  New 
Year  holidays  I  was  surprised  to  see  a  loon  in 
the  small  open  part  of  the  lake  at  the  mouth 
of  the  inlet  that  was  kept  from  freezing  by  the 
warm  spring  water.  I  knew  that  it  could  not 
fly  out  of  so  small  a  place,  for  these  heavy  birds 
have  to  beat  the  water  for  half  a  mile  or  so 
I  153  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

before  they  can  get  fairly  on  the  wing.  Their 
narrow,  finlike  wings  are  very  small  as  compared 
with  the  weight  of  the  body  and  are  evidently 
made  for  flying  through  water  as  well  as  through 
the  air,  and  it  is  by  means  of  their  swift  flight 
through  the  water  and  the  swiftness  of  the  blow 
they  strike  with  their  long,  spear-like  bills  that 
they  are  able  to  capture  the  fishes  on  which 
they  feed.  I  ran  down  the  meadow  with  the 
gun,  got  into  my  boat,  and  pursued  that  poor 
winter-bound  straggler.  Of  course  he  dived 
again  and  again,  but  had  to  come  up  to  breathe, 
and  I  at  length  got  a  quick  shot  at  his  head  and 
slightly  wounded  or  stunned  him,  caught  him, 
and  ran  proudly  back  to  the  house  with  my 
prize.  I  carried  him  in  my  arms ;  he  did  n't 
struggle  to  get  away  or  offer  to  strike  me,  and 
when  I  put  him  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the 
kitchen  stove,  he  just  rested  quietly  on  his 
belly  as  noiseless  and  motionless  as  if  he  were  a 
stuffed  specimen  on  a  shelf,  held  his  neck  erect, 
gave  no  sign  of  suffering  from  any  wound,  and 
though  he  was  motionless,  his  small  black  eyes 
[  i54  1 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

seemed  to  be  ever  keenly  watchful.  His  formid- 
able bill,  very  sharp,  three  or  three  and  a  half 
inches  long,  and  shaped  like  a  pickaxe,  was  held 
perfectly  level.  But  the  wonder  was  that  he  did 
not  struggle  or  make  the  slightest  movement. 
We  had  a  tortoise-shell  cat,  an  old  Tom  of  great 
experience,  who  was  so  fond  of  lying  under  the 
stove  in  frosty  weather  that  it  was  difficult  even 
to  poke  him  out  with  a  broom ;  but  when  he  saw 
and  smelled  that  strange  big  fishy,  black  and 
white,  speckledy  bird,  the  like  of  which  he  had 
never  before  seen,  he  rushed  wildly  to  the 
farther  corner  of  the  kitchen,  looked  back 
cautiously  and  suspiciously,  and  began  to  make 
a  careful  study  of  the  handsome  but  dangerous- 
looking  stranger.  Becoming  more  and  more 
curious  and  interested,  he  at  length  advanced 
a  step  or  two  for  a  nearer  view  and  nearer 
smell;  and  as  the  wonderful  bird  kept  abso- 
lutely motionless,  he  was  encouraged  to  venture 
gradually  nearer  and  nearer  until  within  per- 
haps five  or  six  feet  of  its  breast.  Then  the 
wary  loon,  not  liking  Tom's  looks  in  so  near  a 
[  155  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

view,  which  perhaps  recalled  to  his  mind  the 
plundering  minks  and  muskrats  he  had  to  fight 
when  they  approached  his  nest,  prepared  to 
defend  himself  by  slowly,  almost  imperceptibly 
drawing  back  his  long  pickaxe  bill,  and  without 
the  slightest  fuss  or  stir  held  it  level  and  ready 
just  over  his  tail.  With  that  dangerous  bill 
drawn  so  far  back  out  of  the  way,  Tom's  con- 
fidence in  the  stranger's  peaceful  intentions 
seemed  almost  complete,  and,  thus  encouraged, 
he  at  last  ventured  forward  with  wondering, 
questioning  eyes  and  quivering  nostrils  until 
he  was  only  eighteen  or  twenty  inches  from  the 
loon's  smooth  white  breast.  When  the  beautiful 
bird,  apparently  as  peaceful  and  inoffensive  as 
a  flower,  saw  that  his  hairy  yellow  enemy  had 
arrived  at  the  right  distance,  the  loon,  who  evi- 
dently was  a  fine  judge  of  the  reach  of  his  spear, 
shot  it  forward  quick  as  a  lightning-flash,  in 
marvelous  contrast  to  the  wonderful  slowness 
of  the  preparatory  poising,  backward  motion. 
The  aim  was  true  to  a  hair-breadth.  Tom  was 
struck  right  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  be- 
[  156  1 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

tween  the  eyes.  I  thought  his  skull  was  cracked. 
Perhaps  it  was.  The  sudden  astonishment  of 
that  outraged  cat,  the  virtuous  indignation 
and  wrath,  terror,  and  pain,  are  far  beyond 
description.  His  eyes  and  screams  and  desper- 
ate retreat  told  all  that.  When  the  blow  was 
received,  he  made  a  noise  that  I  never  heard  a 
cat  make  before  or  since ;  an  awfully  deep,  con- 
densed, screechy,  explosive  Wuckl  as  he  bounced 
straight  up  in  the  air  like  a  bucking  bronco; 
and  when  he  alighted  after  his  spring,  he 
rushed  madly  across  the  room  and  made 
frantic  efforts  to  climb  up  the  hard-finished 
plaster  wall.  Not  satisfied  to  get  the  width  of 
the  kitchen  away  from  his  mysterious  enemy, 

ifor  the  first  time  that  cold  winter  he  tried  to 
get  out  of  the  house,  anyhow,  anywhere  out  of 
that  loon-infested  room.  When  he  finally  ven- 
tured to  look  back  and  saw  that  the  barbarous 
bird  was  still  there,  tranquil  and  motionless  in 
front  of  the  stove,  he  regained  command  of 
some  of  his  shattered  senses  and  carefully  com- 
menced to  examine  his  wound.  Backed  against 
[  157  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

the  wall  in  the  farthest  corner,  and  keeping  his 
eye  on  the  outrageous  bird,  he  tenderly  touched 
and  washed  the  sore  spot,  wetting  his  paw  with 
his  tongue,  pausing  now  and  then  as  his  cour- 
age increased  to  glare  and  stare  and  growl  at 
his  enemy  with  looks  and  tones  wonderfully 
human,  as  if  saying:  "You  confounded  fishy, 
unfair  rascal !  What  did  you  do  that  for  ?  What 
had  I  done  to  you?  Faithless,  legless,  long- 
nosed  wretch!"  Intense  experiences  like  the 
above  bring  out  the  humanity  that  is  in  all 
animals.  One  touch  of  nature,  even  a  cat-and- 
loon  touch,  makes  all  the  world  kin. 

It  was  a  great  memorable  day  when  the  first 
flock  of  passenger  pigeons  came  to  our  farm, 
calling  to  mind  the  story  we  had  read  about 
them  when  we  were  at  school  in  Scotland.  Of 
all  God's  feathered  people  that  sailed  the  Wis- 
consin sky,  no  other  bird  seemed  to  us  so  won- 
derful. The  beautiful  wanderers  flew  like  the 
winds  in  flocks  of  millions  from  climate  to 
climate  in  accord  with  the  weather,  finding 
their  food  —  acorns,  beechnuts,  pine-nuts,  cran- 
[  158  1 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

berries,  strawberries,  huckleberries,  juniper 
berries,  hackberries,  buckwheat,  rice,  wheat, 
oats,  corn  —  in  fields  and  forests  thousands  of 
miles  apart.  I  have  seen  flocks  streaming  south 
in  the  fall  so  large  that  they  were  flowing  over 
from  horizon  to  horizon  in  an  almost  continuous 
stream  all  day  long,  at  the  rate  of  forty  or  fifty 
miles  an  hour,  like  a  mighty  river  in  the  sky, 
widening,  contracting,  descending  like  falls  and 
cataracts,  and  rising  suddenly  here  and  there  in 
huge  ragged  masses  like  high-plashing  spray. 
How  wonderful  the  distances  they  flew  in  a 
day  —  in  a  year  —  in  a  lifetime !  They  arrived 
in  Wisconsin  in  the  spring  just  after  the  sun 
had  cleared  away  the  snow,  and  alighted  in  the 
woods  to  feed  on  the  fallen  acorns  that  they 
had  missed  the  previous  autumn.  A  compara- 
tively small  flock  swept  thousands  of  acres 
perfectly  clean  of  acorns  in  a  few  minutes,  by 
moving  straight  ahead  with  a  broad  front.  All 
got  their  share,  for  the  rear  constantly  became 
the  van  by  flying  over  the  flock  and  alighting 
in  front,  the  entire  flock  constantly  changing 
[  i59  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

from  rear  to  front,  revolving  something  like  a 
wheel  with  a  low  buzzing  wing  roar  that  could 
be  heard  a  long  way  off.  In  summer  they  feasted 
on  wheat  and  oats  and  were  easily  approached 
as  they  rested  on  the  trees  along  the  sides  of 
the  field  after  a  good  full  meal,  displaying 
beautiful  iridescent  colors  as  they  moved  their 
necks  backward  and  forward  when  we  went 
very  near  them.  Every  shotgun  was  aimed  at 
them  and  everybody  feasted  on  pigeon  pies, 
and  not  a  few  of  the  settlers  feasted  also  on  the 
beauty  of  the  wonderful  birds.  The  breast  of 
the  male  is  a  fine  rosy  red,  the  lower  part  of  the 
neck  behind  and  along  the  sides  changing  from 
the  red  of  the  breast  to  gold,  emerald  green  and 
rich  crimson.  The  general  color  of  the  upper 
parts  is  grayish  blue,  the  under  parts  white. 
The  extreme  length  of  the  bird  is  about  seven- 
teen inches;  the  finely  modeled  slender  tail 
about  eight  inches,  and  extent  of  wings  twenty- 
four  inches.  The  females  are  scarcely  less 
beautiful.  "Oh,  what  bonnie,  bonnie  birds!" 
we  exclaimed  over  the  first  that  fell  into  our 
[  160  ] 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

hands.  "Oh,  what  colors!  Look  at  their 
breasts,  bonnie  as  roses,  and  at  their  necks 
aglow  wi'  every  color  juist  like  the  wonderfu' 
wood  ducks.  Oh,  the  bonnie,  bonnie  creatures, 
they  beat  a' !  Where  did  they  a'  come  fra,  and 
where  are  they  a'  gan?  It's  awfu'  like  a  sin  to 
kill  them!"  To  this  some  smug,  practical  old 
sinner  would  remark:  "Aye,  it's  a  peety,  as  ye 
say,  to  kill  the  bonnie  things,  but  they  were 
made  to  be  killed,  and  sent  for  us  to  eat  as  the 
quails  were  sent  to  God's  chosen  people,  the 
Israelites,  when  they  were  starving  in  the 
desert  ayont  the  Red  Sea.  And  I  must  confess 
that  meat  was  never  put  up  in  neater,  hand- 
somer-painted packages." 

In  the  New  England  and  Canada  woods 
beechnuts  were  their  best  and  most  abundant 
food,  farther  north,  cranberries  and  huckle- 
berries. After  everything  was  cleaned  up  in  the 
north  and  winter  was  coming  on,  they  went 
south  for  rice,  corn,  acorns,  haws,  wild  grapes, 
crab-apples,  sparkle-berries,  etc.  They  seemed 
to  require  more  than  half  of  the  continent  for 
[  161  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

feeding-grounds,  moving  from  one  table  to 
another,  field  to  field,  forest  to  forest,  finding 
something  ripe  and  wholesome  all  the  year 
round.  In  going  south  in  the  fine  Indian- 
summer  weather  they  flew  high  and  followed 
one  another,  though  the  head  of  the  flock 
might  be  hundreds  of  miles  in  advance.  But 
against  head  winds  they  took  advantage  of  the 
inequalities  of  the  ground,  flying  comparatively 
low.  All  followed  the  leader's  ups  and  downs 
over  hill  and  dale  though  far  out  of  sight,  never 
hesitating  at  any  turn  of  the  way,  vertical  or 
horizontal  that  the  leaders  had  taken,  though 
the  largest  flocks  stretched  across  several 
States,  and  belts  of  different  kinds  of  weather. 

There  were  no  roosting-  or  breeding-places 
near  our  farm,  and  I  never  saw  any  of  them 
until  long  after  the  great  flocks  were  extermi- 
nated. I  therefore  quote,  from  Audubon's  and 
Pokagon's  vivid  descriptions. 

"Toward  evening,"  Audubon  says,  "they 
depart  for  the  roosting-place,  which  may  be 
hundreds  of  miles  distant.  One  on  the  banks  of 
[  162  ] 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

Green  River,  Kentucky,  was  over  three  miles 
wide  and  forty  long/' 

"My  first  view  of  it,"  says  the  great  natural- 
ist, "was  about  a  fortnight  after  it  had  been 
chosen  by  the  birds,  and  I  arrived  there  nearly 
two  hours  before  sunset.  Few  pigeons  were 
then  to  be  seen,  but  a  great  many  persons 
with  horses  and  wagons  and  armed  with  guns, 
long  poles,  sulphur  pots,  pine  pitch  torches,  etc., 
had  already  established  encampments  on  the 
borders.  Two  farmers  had  driven  upwards  of 
three  hundred  hogs  a  distance  of  more  than  a 
hundred  miles  to  be  fattened  on  slaughtered 
pigeons.  Here  and  there  the  people  employed 
in  plucking  and  salting  what  had  already  been 
secured  were  sitting  in  the  midst  of  piles  of 
birds.  Dung  several  inches  thick  covered  the 
ground.  Many  trees  two  feet  in  diameter  were 
broken  off  at  no  great  distance  from  the  ground, 
and  the  branches  of  many  of  the  tallest  and 
largest  had  given  way,  as  if  the  forest  had  been 
swept  by  a  tornado. 

"Not  a  pigeon  had  arrived  at  sundown.  Sud- 
[  163  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

denly  a  general  cry  arose  —  'Here  they  come!' 
The  noise  they  made,  though  still  distant,  re- 
minded me  of  a  hard  gale  at  sea  passing  through 
the  rigging  of  a  close-reefed  ship.  Thousands 
were  soon  knocked  down  by  the  pole-men.  The 
birds  continued  to  pour  in.  The  fires  were 
lighted  and  a  magnificent  as  well  as  terrifying 
sight  presented  itself.  The  pigeons  pouring  in 
alighted  everywhere,  one  above  another,  until 
solid  masses  were  formed  on  the  branches  all 
around.  Here  and  there  the  perches  gave  way 
with  a  crash,  and  falling  destroyed  hundreds 
beneath,  forcing  down  the  dense  groups  with 
which  every  stick  was  loaded ;  a  scene  of  uproar 
and  conflict.  I  found  it  useless  to  speak  or 
even  to  shout  to  those  persons  nearest  me. 
Even  the  reports  of  the  guns  were  seldom 
heard,  and  I  was  made  aware  of  the  firing  only 
by  seeing  the  shooters  reloading.  None  dared 
venture  within  the  line  of  devastation.  The 
hogs  had  been  penned  up  in  due  time,  the  pick- 
ing up  of  the  dead  and  wounded  being  left  for 
the  next  morning's  employment.  The  pigeons 
[  164  ] 


BAROMETER 
Invented  by  the  author  in  his  boyhood 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

were  constantly  coming  in  and  it  was  after 
midnight  before  I  perceived  a  decrease  in  the 
number  of  those  that  arrived.  The  uproar  con- 
tinued all  night,  and  anxious  to  know  how  far 
the  sound  reached  I  sent  off  a  man  who,  return- 
ing two  hours  after,  informed  me  that  he  had 
heard  it  distinctly  three  miles  distant. 

"Toward  daylight  the  noise  in  some  measure 
subsided ;  long  before  objects  were  distinguish- 
able the  pigeons  began  to  move  off  in  a  direc- 
tion quite  different  from  that  in  which  they  had 
arrived  the  evening  before,  and  at  sunrise  all 
that  were  able  to  fly  had  disappeared.  The 
howling  of  the  wolves  now  reached  our  ears, 
and  the  foxes,  lynxes,  cougars,  bears,  coons, 
opossums,  and  polecats  were  seen  sneaking 
off,  while  eagles  and  hawks  of  different  species, 
accompanied  by  a  crowd  of  vultures,  came  to 
supplant  them  and  enjoy  a  share  of  the  spoil. 

"Then  the  authors  of  all  this  devastation 

began  their  entry  amongst  the  dead,  the  dying 

and  mangled.    The  pigeons  were  picked  up 

and  piled  in  heaps  until  each  had  as  many  as 

I  165  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

they  could  possible  dispose  of,  when  the  hogs 
were  let  loose  to  feed  on  the  remainder. 

"The  breeding-places  are  selected  with  refer- 
ence to  abundance  of  food,  and  countless 
myriads  resort  to  them.  At  this  period  the  note 
of  the  pigeon  is  coo  coo  coo,  like  that  of  the 
domestic  species  but  much  shorter.  They 
caress  by  billing,  and  during  incubation  the 
male  supplies  the  female  with  food.  As  the 
young  grow,  the  tyrant  of  creation  appears  to 
disturb  the  peaceful  scene,  armed  with  axes 
to  chop  down  the  squab-laden  trees,  and  the 
abomination  of  desolation  and  destruction 
produced  far  surpasses  even  that  of  the  roosting 
places/' 

Pokagon,  an  educated  Indian  writer,  says: 
"I  saw  one  nesting-place  in  Wisconsin  one 
hundred  miles  long  and  from  three  to  ten  miles 
wide.  Every  tree,  some  of  them  quite  low  and 
scrubby,  had  from  one  to  fifty  nests  on  each. 
Some  of  the  nests  overflow  from  the  oaks  to  the 
hemlock  and  pine  woods.  When  the  pigeon 
hunters  attack  the  breeding-places  they  some- 
[  166  ] 


A  Paradise  of  Birds 

times  cut  the  timber  from  thousands  of  acres. 
Millions  are  caught  in  nets  with  salt  or  grain 
for  bait,  and  schooners,  sometimes  loaded  down 
with  the  birds,  are  taken  to  New  York  where 
they  are  sold  for  a  cent  apiece."  i 


YOUNG    HUNTERS 

American  Head-hunters  —  Deer  —  A  Resurrected  Wood- 
pecker —  Muskrats  —  Foxes  and  Badgers  —  A  Pet  Coon 
—  Bathing  —  Squirrels  —  Gophers  —  A  Burglarious  Shrike. 

IN  the  older  eastern  States  it  used  to  be 
considered  great  sport  for  an  army  of 
boys  to  assemble  to  hunt  birds,  squirrels, 
and  every  other  unclaimed,  unprotected  live 
thing  of  shootable  size.  They  divided  into  two 
squads,  and,  choosing  leaders,  scattered  through 
the  woods  in  different  directions,  and  the  party 
that  killed  the  greatest  number  enjoyed  a  sup- 
per at  the  expense  of  the  other.  The  whole 
neighborhood  seemed  to  enjoy  the  shameful 
sport  especially  the  farmers  afraid  of  their 
crops.  With  a  great  air  of  importance,  laws 
were  enacted  to  govern  the  gory  business.  For 
example,  a  gray  squirrel  must  count  four  heads, 
a  woodchuck  six  heads,  common  red  squirrel 
two  heads,  black  squirrel  ten  heads,  a  partridge 
[  168  ] 


Toung  Hunters 


five  heads,  the  larger  birds,  such  as  whip- 
poor-wills  and  nighthawks  two  heads  each, 
the  wary  crows  three,  and  bob-whites  three. 
But  all  the  blessed  company  of  mere  songbirds, 
warblers,  robins,  thrushes,  orioles,  with  nut- 
hatches, chickadees,  blue  jays,  woodpeckers, 
etc.,  counted  only  one  head  each.  The  heads 
of  the  birds  were  hastily  wrung  off  and  thrust 
into  the  game-bags  to  be  counted,  saving  the 
bodies  only  of  what  were  called  game,  the 
larger  squirrels,  bob-whites,  partridges,  etc. 
The  blood-stained  bags  of  the  best  slayers 
were  soon  bulging  full.  Then  at  a  given  hour 
all  had  to  stop  and  repair  to  the  town,  empty 
their  dripping  sacks,  count  the  heads,  and  go 
rejoicing  to  their  dinner.  Although,  like  other 
wild  boys,  I  was  fond  of  shooting,  I  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  these  abominable  head- 
hunts. And  now  the  farmers  having  learned 
that  birds  are  their  friends  wholesale  slaughter 
has  been  abolished. 

We  seldom  saw  deer,  though  their  tracks 
were  common.    The  Yankee  explained  that 
[  169  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

they  traveled  and  fed  mostly  at  night,  and  hid 
in  tamarack  swamps  and  brushy  places  in  the 
daytime,  and  how  the  Indians  knew  all  about 
them  and  could  find  them  whenever  they  were 
hungry. 

Indians  belonging  to  the  Menominee  and 
Winnebago  tribes  occasionally  visited  us  at  our 
cabin  to  get  a  piece  of  bread  or  some  matches, 
or  to  sharpen  their  knives  on  our  grindstone, 
and  we  boys  watched  them  closely  to  see  that 
they  did  n't  steal  Jack.  We  wondered  at  their 
knowledge  of  animals  when  we  saw  them  go 
direct  to  trees  on  our  farm,  chop  holes  in  them 
with  their  tomahawks  and  take  out  coons,  of 
the  existence  of  which  we  had  never  noticed 
the  slightest  trace.  In  winter,  after  the  first 
snow,  we  frequently  saw  three  or  four  Indians 
hunting  deer  in  company,  running  like  hounds 
on  the  fresh,  exciting  tracks.  The  escape  of  the 
deer  from  these  noiseless,  tireless  hunters  was 
said  to  be  well-nigh  impossible ;  they  were  fol- 
lowed to  the  death. 

Most  of  our  neighbors  brought  some  sort  of 
[  170  ] 


Toung  Hunters 


gun  from  the  old  country,  but  seldom  took  time 
to  hunt,  even  after  the  first  hard  work  of  fenc- 
ing and  clearing  was  over,  except  to  shoot  a 
duck  or  prairie  chicken  now  and  then  that  hap- 
pened to  come  in  their  way.  It  was  only  the  less 
industrious  American  settlers  who  left  their 
work  to  go  far  a-hunting.  Two  or  three  of  our 
most  enterprising  American  neighbors  went  off 
every  fall  with  their  teams  to  the  pine  regions 
and  cranberry  marshes  in  the  northern  part  of 
the  State  to  hunt  and  gather  berries.  I  well 
remember  seeing  their  wagons  loaded  with 
game  when  they  returned  from  a  successful 
hunt.  Their  loads  consisted  usually  of  half  a 
dozen  deer  or  more,  one  or  two  black  bears, 
and  fifteen  or  twenty  bushels  of  cranberries ;  all 
solidly  frozen.  Part  of  both  the  berries  and 
meat  was  usually  sold  in  Portage;  the  balance 
furnished  their  families  with  abundance  of 
venison,  bear  grease,  and  pies. 

Winter  wheat  is  sown  in  the  fall,  and  when 
it  is  a  month  or  so  old  the  deer,  like  the  wild 
geese,  are  very  fond  of  it,  especially  since  other 
[  171  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

kinds  of  food  are  then  becoming  scarce.  One 
of  our  neighbors  across  the  Fox  River  killed  a 
large  number,  some  thirty  or  forty,  on  a  small 
patch  of  wheat,  simply  by  lying  in  wait  for 
them  every  night.  Our  wheat-field  was  the 
first  that  was  sown  in  the  neighborhood.  The 
deer  soon  found  it  and  came  in  every  night  to 
feast,  but  it  was  eight  or  nine  years  before  we 
ever  disturbed  them.  David  then  killed  one 
deer,  the  only  one  killed  by  any  of  our  family. 
He  went  out  shortly  after  sundown  at  the  time 
of  full  moon  to  one  of  our  wheat-fields,  carrying 
a  double-barreled  shotgun  loaded  with  buck- 
shot. After  lying  in  wait  an  hour  or  so,  he  saw 
a  doe  and  her  fawn  jump  the  fence  and  come 
cautiously  into  the  wheat.  After  they  were 
within  sixty  or  seventy  yards  of  him,  he  was 
surprised  when  he  tried  to  take  aim  that  about 
half  of  the  moon's  disc  was  mysteriously  dark- 
ened as  if  covered  by  the  edge  of  a  dense  cloud. 
This  proved  to  be  an  eclipse.  Nevertheless,  he 
fired  at  the  mother,  and  she  immediately  ran 
off,  jumped  the  fence,  and  took  to  the  woods  by 
[  172  3 


Young  Hunters 


the  way  she  came.  The  fawn  danced  about 
bewildered,  wondering  what  had  become  of  its 
mother,  but  finally  fled  to  the  woods.  David 
fired  at  the  poor  deserted  thing  as  it  ran  past 
him  but  happily  missed  it.  Hearing  the  shots, 
I  joined  David  to  learn  his  luck.  He  said  he 
thought  he  must  have  wounded  the  mother, 
and  when  we  were  strolling  about  in  the  woods 
in  search  of  her  we  saw  three  or  four  deer  on 
their  way  to  the  wheat-field,  led  by  a  fine  buck. 
They  were  walking  rapidly,  but  cautiously 
halted  at  intervals  of  a  few  rods  to  listen  and 
look  ahead  and  scent  the  air.  They  failed  to 
notice  us,  though  by  this  time  the  moon  was 
out  of  the  eclipse  shadow  and  we  were  standing 
only  about  fifty  yards  from  them.  I  was  carry- 
ing the  gun.  David  had  fired  both  barrels  but 
when  he  was  reloading  one  of  them  he  happened 
to  put  the  wad  intended  to  cover  the  shot  into 
the  empty  barrel,  and  so  when  we  were  climb- 
ing over  the  fence  the  buckshot  had  rolled  out, 
and  when  I  fired  at  the  big  buck  I  knew  by  the 
report  that  there  was  nothing  but  powder  in  the 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

charge.  The  startled  deer  danced  about  in 
confusion  for  a  few  seconds,  uncertain  which 
way  to  run  until  they  caught  sight  of  us,  when 
they  bounded  off  through  the  woods.  Next 
morning  we  found  the  poor  mother  lying  about 
three  hundred  yards  from  the  place  where  she 
was  shot.  She  had  run  this  distance  and  jumped 
a  high  fence  after  one  of  the  buckshot  had 
passed  through  her  heart. 

Excepting  Sundays  we  boys  had  only  two 
days  of  the  year  to  ourselves,  the  4th  of  July 
and  the  ist  of  January.  Sundays  were  less  than 
half  our  own,  on  account  of  Bible  lessons, 
Sunday-school  lessons  and  church  services;  all 
the  others  were  labor  days,  rain  or  shine,  cold 
or  warm.  No  wonder,  then,  that  our  two  holi- 
days were  precious  and  that  it  was  not  easy  to 
decide  what  to  do  with  them.  They  were  usu- 
ally spent  on  the  highest  rocky  hill  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, called  the  Observatory;  in  visiting 
our  boy  friends  on  adjacent  farms  to  hunt,  fish, 
wrestle,  and  play  games ;  in  reading  some  new 
favorite  book  we  had  managed  to  borrow  or 
I  174! 


Toung  Hunters 


buy;  or  in  making  models  of  machines  I  had 
invented. 

One  of  our  July  days  was  spent  with  two 
Scotch  boys  of  our  own  age  hunting  redwing 
blackbirds  then  busy  in  the  corn-fields.  Our 
party  had  only  one  single-barreled  shotgun, 
which,  as  the  oldest  and  perhaps  because  I  was 
thought  to  be  the  best  shot,  I  had  the  honor  of 
carrying.  We  marched  through  the  corn  with- 
out getting  sight  of  a  single  redwing,  but  just 
as  we  reached  the  far  side  of  the  field,  a  red- 
headed woodpecker  flew  up,  and  the  Lawson 
boys  cried:  "Shoot  him!  Shoot  him!  he  is  just 
as  bad  as  a  blackbird.  He  eats  corn!"  This 
memorable  woodpecker  alighted  in  the  top  of  a 
white  oak  tree  about  fifty  feet  high.  I  fired 
from  a  position  almost  immediately  beneath 
him,  and  he  fell  straight  down  at  my  feet. 
When  I  picked  him  up  and  was  admiring  his 
plumage,  he  moved  his  legs  slightly,  and  I  said, 
"Poor  bird,  he's  no  deed  yet  and  we'll  hae  to 
kill  him  to  put  him  oot  o'  pain,"  —  sincerely 
pitying  him,  after  we  had  taken  pleasure  in 
[  i75  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

shooting  him.  I  had  seen  servant  girls  wringing 
chicken  necks,  so  with  desperate  humanity  I 
took  the  limp  unfortunate  by  the  head,  swung 
him  around  three  or  four  times  thinking  I  was 
wringing  his  neck,  and  then  threw  him  hard  on 
the  ground  to  quench  the  last  possible  spark  of 
life  and  make  quick  death  doubly  sure.  But  to 
our  astonishment  the  moment  he  struck  the 
ground  he  gave  a  cry  of  alarm  and  flew  right 
straight  up  like  a  rejoicing  lark  into  the  top  of 
the  same  tree,  and  perhaps  to  the  same  branch 
he  had  fallen  from,  and  began  to  adjust  his 
ruffled  feathers,  nodding  and  chirping  and  look- 
ing down  at  us  as  if  wondering  what  in  the  bird 
world  we  had  been  doing  to  him.  This  of  course 
banished  all  thought  of  killing,  as  far  as  that 
revived  woodpecker  was  concerned,  no  matter 
how  many  ears  of  corn  he  might  spoil,  and  we  all 
heartily  congratulated  him  on  his  wonderful, 
triumphant  resurrection  from  three  kinds  of 
death,  —  shooting,  neck-wringing,  and  destruc- 
tive concussion.  I  suppose  only  one  pellet  had 
touched  him,  glancing  on  his  head. 
[  176  1 


Toung  Hunters 


Another  extraordinary  shooting-affair  hap- 
pened one  summer  morning  shortly  after  day- 
break. When  I  went  to  the  stable  to  feed  the 
horses  I  noticed  a  big  white-breasted  hawk  on 
a  tall  oak  in  front  of  the  chicken-house,  evi- 
dently waiting  for  a  chicken  breakfast.  I  ran 
to  the  house  for  the  gun,  and  when  I  fired  he 
fell  about  halfway  down  the  tree,  caught  a 
branch  with  his  claws,  hung  back  downward 
and  fluttered  a  few  seconds,  then  managed  to 
stand  erect.  I  fired  again  to  put  him  out  of 
pain,  and  to  my  surprise  the  second  shot  seemed 
to  restore  his  strength  instead  of  killing  him, 
for  he  flew  out  of  the  tree  and  over  the  meadow 
with  strong  and  regular  wing-beats  for  thirty 
or  forty  rods  apparently  as  well  as  ever,  but 
died  suddenly  in  the  air  and  dropped  like  a 
stone. 

We  hunted  muskrats  whenever  we  had  time 
to  run  down  to  the  lake.  They  are  brown 
bunchy  animals  about  twenty-three  inches 
long,  the  tail  being  about  nine  inches  in  length, 
black  in  color  and  flattened  vertically  for  scull- 

1 177 1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

ing,  and  the  hind  feet  are  half-webbed.  They 
look  like  little  beavers,  usually  have  from  ten 
to  a  dozen  young,  are  easily  tamed  and  make 
interesting  pets.  We  liked  to  watch  them  at 
their  work  and  at  their  meals.  In  the  spring 
when  the  snow  vanishes  and  the  lake  ice  begins 
to  melt,  the  first  open  spot  is  always  used  as  a 
feeding-place,  where  they  dive  from  the  edge  of 
the  ice  and  in  a  minute  or  less  reappear  with  a 
mussel  or  a  mouthful  of  pontederia  or  water- 
lily  leaves,  climb  back  on  to  the  ice  and  sit  up 
to  nibble  their  food,  handling  it  very  much  like 
squirrels  or  marmots.  It  is  then  that  they  are 
most  easily  shot,  a  solitary  hunter  oftentimes 
shooting  thirty  or  forty  in  a  single  day.  Their 
nests  on  the  rushy  margins  of  lakes  and  streams, 
far  from  being  hidden  like  those  of  most  birds, 
are  conspicuously  large,  and  conical  in  shape 
like  Indian  wigwams.  They  are  built  of  plants 
—  rushes,  sedges,  mosses,  etc.  —  and  orna- 
mented around  the  base  with  mussel-shells.  It 
was  always  pleasant  and  interesting  to  see  them 
in  the  fall  as  soon  as  the  nights  began  to  be 
[  178  1 


Young  Hunters 


frosty,  hard  at  work  cutting  sedges  on  the  edge 
of  the  meadow  or  swimming  out  through  the 
rushes,  making  long  glittering  ripples  as  they 
sculled  themselves  along,  diving  where  the 
water  is  perhaps  six  or  eight  feet  deep  and 
reappearing  in  a  minute  or  so  with  large  mouth- 
fuls  of  the  weedy  tangled  plants  gathered  from 
the  bottom,  returning  to  their  big  wigwams, 
climbing  up  and  depositing  their  loads  where 
most  needed  to  make  them  yet  larger  and  firmer 
and  warmer,  foreseeing  the  freezing  weather 
just  like  ourselves  when  we  banked  up  our 
house  to  keep  out  the  frost. 

They  lie  snug  and  invisible  all  winter  but  do 
not  hibernate.  Through  a  channel  carefully 
kept  open  they  swim  out  under  the  ice  for  mus- 
sels, and  the  roots  and  stems  of  water-lilies, 
etc.,  on  which  they  feed  just  as  they  do  in  sum- 
mer. Sometimes  the  oldest  and  most  enterpris- 
ing of  them  venture  to  orchards  near  the  water 
in  search  of  fallen  apples;  very  seldom,  how- 
ever, do  they  interfere  with  anything  belonging 
to  their  mortal  enemy  man.  Notwithstanding 
I  179  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

they  are  so  well  hidden  and  protected  during 
the  winter,  many  of  them  are  killed  by  Indian 
hunters,  who  creep  up  softly  and  spear  them 
through  the  thick  walls  of  their  cabins.  Indians 
are  fond  of  their  flesh,  and  so  are  some  of  the 
wildest  of  the  white  trappers.  They  are  easily 
caught  in  steel  traps,  and  after  vainly  trying 
to  drag  their  feet  from  the  cruel  crushing  jaws, 
they  sometimes  in  their  agony  gnaw  them  off. 
Even  after  having  gnawed  off  a  leg  they  are  so 
guileless  that  they  never  seem  to  learn  to  know 
and  fear  traps,  for  some  are  occasionally  found 
that  have  been  caught  twice  and  have  gnawed 
off  a  second  foot.  Many  other  animals  suffering 
excruciating  pain  in  these  cruel  traps  gnaw  off 
their  legs.  Crabs  and  lobsters  are  so  fortunate 
as  to  be  able  to  shed  their  limbs  when  caught 
or  merely  frightened,  apparently  without  suf- 
fering any  pain,  simply  by  giving  themselves 
a  little  shivery  shake. 

The  muskrat  is  one  of  the  most  notable  and 
widely  distributed  of  American  animals,  and 
millions  of  the  gentle,  industrious,  beaver-like 
. I  180  1 


Young  Hunters 


creatures  are  shot  and  trapped  and  speared 
every  season  for  their  skins,  worth  a  dime  or 
so,  —  like  shooting  boys  and  girls  for  their 
garments. 

Surely  a  better  time  must  be  drawing  nigh 
when  godlike  human  beings  will  become  truly 
humane,  and  learn  to  put  their  animal  fellow 
mortals  in  their  hearts  instead  of  on  their 
backs  or  in  their  dinners.  In  the  mean  time  we 
may  just  as  well  as  not  learn  to  live  clean, 
innocent  lives  instead  of  slimy,  bloody  ones. 
All  hale,  red-blooded  boys  are  savage,  the  best 
and  boldest  the  savagest,  fond  of  hunting  and 
fishing.  But  when  thoughtless  childhood  is 
past,  the  best  rise  the  highest  above  all  this 
bloody  flesh  and  sport  business,  the  wild  foun- 
dational  animal  dying  out  day  by  day,  as  divine 
uplifting,  transfiguring  charity  grows  in.  ~ 

Hares  and  rabbits  were  seldom  seen  when 
we  first  settled  in  the  Wisconsin  woods,  but  they 
multiplied  rapidly  after  the  animals  that 
preyed  upon  them  had  been  thinned  out  or 
exterminated,  and  food  and  shelter  supplied 
[  181  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

in  grain-fields  and  log  fences  and  the  thickets 
of  young  oaks  that  grew  up  in  pastures  after 
the  annual  grass  fires  were  kept  out.  Catching 
hares  in  the  winter-time,  when  they  were  hid- 
den in  hollow  fence-logs,  was  a  favorite  pastime 
with  many  of  the  boys  whose  fathers  allowed 
them  time  to  enjoy  the  sport.  Occasionally  a 
stout,  lithe  hare  was  carried  out  into  an  open 
snow-covered  field,  set  free,  and  given  a  chance 
for  its  life  in  a  race  with  a  dog.  When  the  snow 
was  not  too  soft  and  deep,  it  usually  made  good 
its  escape,  for  our  dogs  were  only  fat,  short- 
legged  mongrels.  We  sometimes  discovered 
hares  in  standing  hollow  trees,  crouching  on 
decayed  punky  wood  at  the  bottom,  as  far  back 
as  possible  from  the  opening,  but  when  alarmed 
they  managed  to  climb  to  a  considerable  height 
if  the  hollow  was  not  too  wide,  by  bracing  them- 
selves against  the  sides. 

Foxes,  though  not  uncommon,  we  boys  held 

steadily  to  work  seldom  saw,  and  as  they  found 

plenty  of  prairie  chickens  for  themselves  and 

families,  they  did  not  often  come  near  the 

[  182  J 


Toung  Hunters 


farmer's  hen-roosts.  Nevertheless  the  discov- 
ery of  their  dens  was  considered  important. 
No  matter  how  deep  the  den  might  be,  it  was 
thoroughly  explored  with  pick  and  shovel  by 
sport-loving  settlers  at  a  time  when  they  judged 
the  fox  was  likely  to  be  at  home,  but  I  cannot 
remember  any  case  in  our  neighborhood  where 
the  fox  was  actually  captured.  In  one  of  the 
dens  a  mile  or  two  from  our  farm  a  lot  of 
prairie  chickens  were  found  and  some  smaller 
birds. 

Badger  dens  were  far  more  common  than  fox 
dens.  One  of  our  fields  was  named  Badger  Hill 
from  the  number  of  badger  holes  in  a  hill  at 
the  end  of  it,  but  I  cannot  remember  seeing  a 
single  one  of  the  inhabitants. 

On  a  stormy  day  in  the  middle  of  an  unusu- 
ally severe  winter,  a  black  bear,  hungry,  no 
doubt,  and  seeking  something  to  eat,  came 
strolling  down  through  our  neighborhood  from 
the  northern  pine  woods.  None  had  been  seen 
here  before,  and  it  caused  no  little  excitement 
and  alarm,  for  the  European  settlers  imagined 
[  183  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

that  these  poor,  timid,  bashful  bears  were  as 
dangerous  as  man-eating  lions  and  tigers,  and 
that  they  would  pursue  any  human  being  that 
came  in  their  way.  This  species  is  common  in 
the  north  part  of  the  State,  and  few  of  our 
enterprising  Yankee  hunters  who  went  to  the 
pineries  in  the  fall  failed  to  shoot  at  least  one 
of  them. 

We  saw  very  little  of  the  owlish,  serious- 
looking  coons,  and  no  wonder,  since  they  lie 
hidden  nearly  all  day  in  hollow  trees  and  we 
never  had  time  to  hunt  them.  We  often  heard 
their  curious,  quavering,  whinnying  cries  on 
still  evenings,  but  only  once  succeeded  in  trac- 
ing an  unfortunate  family  through  our  corn- 
field to  their  den  in  a  big  oak  and  catching  them 
all.  One  of  our  neighbors,  Mr.  McRath,  a 
Highland  Scotchman,  caught  one  and  made  a 
pet  of  it.  It  became  very  tame  and  had  perfect 
confidence  in  the  good  intentions  of  its  kind 
friend  and  master.  He  always  addressed  it  in 
speaking  to  it  as  a  "little  man."  When  it 
came  running  to  him  and  jumped  on  his  lap 
[  184  1 


Toung  Hunters 


or  climbed  up  his  trousers,  he  would  say,  while 
patting  its  head  as  if  it  were  a  dog  or  a  child, 
"  Coonie,  ma  mannie,  Coonie,  ma  mannie,  hoo 
are  ye  the  day?  I  think  you're  hungry,"  -as 
the  comical  pet  began  to  examine  his  pockets 
for  nuts  and  bits  of  bread,  —  "Na,  na,  there's 
nathing  in  my  pooch  for  ye  the  day,  my  wee 
mannie,  but  I  '11  get  ye  something."  He  would 
then  fetch  something  it  liked,  —  bread,  nuts,  a 
carrot,  or  perhaps  a  piece  of  fresh  meat.  Any- 
thing scattered  for  it  on  the  floor  it  felt  with 
its  paw  instead  of  looking  at  it,  judging  of  its 
worth  more  by  touch  than  sight. 

The  outlet  of  our  Fountain  Lake  flowed  past 
Mr.  McRath's  door,  and  the  coon  was  very 
fond  of  swimming  in  it  and  searching  for  frogs 
and  mussels.  It  seemed  perfectly  satisfied  to 
stay  about  the  house  without  being  confined, 
occupied  a  comfortable  bed  in  a  section  of  a 
hollow  tree,  and  never  wandered  far.  How  long 
it  lived  after  the  death  of  its  kind  master  I 
don't  know. 

I  suppose  that  almost  any  wild  animal  may 
[  185  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

be  made  a  pet,  simply  by  sympathizing  with 
it  and  entering  as  much  as  possible  into  its  life. 
In  Alaska  I  saw  one  of  the  common  gray  moun- 
tain marmots  kept  as  a  pet  in  an  Indian  family. 
When  its  master  entered  the  house  it  always 
seemed  glad,  almost  like  a  dog,  and  when  cold 
or  tired  it  snuggled  up  in  a  fold  of  his  blanket 
with  the  utmost  confidence. 

We  have  all  heard  of  ferocious  animals,  lions 
and  tigers,  etc.,  that  were  fed  and  spoken  to 
only  by  their  masters,  becoming  perfectly  tame ; 
and,  as  is  well  known,  the  faithful  dog  that 
follows  man  and  serves  him,  and  looks  up  to 
him  and  loves  him  as  if  he  were  a  god,  is  a 
descendant  of  the  blood-thirsty  wolf  or  jackal. 
Even  frogs  and  toads  and  fishes  may  be  tamed, 
provided  they  have  the  uniform  sympathy  of 
one  person,  with  whom  they  become  intimately 
acquainted  without  the  distracting  and  varying 
attentions  of  strangers.  And  surely  all  God's 
people,  however  serious  and  savage,  great  or 
small,  like  to  play.  Whales  and  elephants,  danc- 
ing, humming  gnats,  and  invisibly  small  mis- 
[  186  ] 


Young  Hunters 


chievous  microbes,  —  all  are  warm  with  divine 
radium  and  must  have  lots  of  fun  in  them. 

As  far  as  I  know,  all  wild  creatures  keep  them- 
selves clean.  Birds,  it  seems  to  me,  take  more 
pains  to  bathe  and  dress  themselves  than  any 
other  animals.  Even  ducks,  though  living  so 
much  in  water,  dip  and  scatter  cleansing 
showers  over  their  backs,  and  shake  and  preen 
their  feathers  as  carefully  as  land-birds.  Watch- 
ing small  singers  taking  their  morning  baths  is 
very  interesting,  particularly  when  the  weather 
is  cold.  Alighting  in  a  shallow  pool,  they  often- 
times show  a  sort  of  dread  of  dipping  into  it, 
like  children  hesitating  about  taking  a  plunge, 
as  if  they  felt  the  same  kind  of  shock,  and  this 
makes  it  easy  for  us  to  sympathize  with  the 
little  feathered  people. 

Occasionally  I  have  seen  from  my  study- 
window  red-headed  linnets  bathing  in  dew 
when  water  elsewhere  was  scarce.  A  large 
Monterey  cypress  with  broad  branches  and 
innumerable  leaves  on  which  the  dew  lodges 
in  still  nights  made  favorite  bathing-places. 
[  187  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

Alighting  gently,  as  if  afraid  to  waste  the  dew, 
they  would  pause  and  fidget  as  they  do  before 
beginning  to  plash  in  pools,  then  dip  and  scatter 
the  drops  in  showers  and  get  as  thorough  a 
bath  as  they  would  in  a  pool.  I  have  also  seen 
the  same  kind  of  baths  taken  by  birds  on  the 
boughs  of  silver  firs  on  the  edge  of  a  glacier 
meadow,  but  nowhere  have  I  seen  the  dew- 
drops  so  abundant  as  on  the  Monterey  cypress; 
and  the  picture  made  by  the  quivering  wings 
and  irised  dew  was  memorably  beautiful. 
Children,  too,  make  fine  pictures  plashing  and 
crowing  in  their  little  tubs.  How  widely  differ- 
ent from  wallowing  pigs,  bathing  with  great 
show  of  comfort  and  rubbing  themselves  dry 
against  rough-barked  trees! 

Some  of  our  own  species  seem  fairly  to  dread 
the  touch  of  water.  When  the  necessity  of  ab- 
solute cleanliness  by  means  of  frequent  baths 
was  being  preached  by  a  friend  who  had  been 
reading  Combe's  Physiology,. in  which  he  had 
learned  something  of  the  wonders  of  the  skin 
with  its  millions  of  pores  that  had  to  be  kept 
[  188  1 


Young  Hunters 


open  for  health,  one  of  our  neighbors  remarked : 
"Oh!  that's  unnatural.  It's  well  enough  to 
wash  in  a  tub  maybe  once  or  twice  a  year,  but 
not  to  be  paddling  in  the  water  all  the  time  like 
a  frog  in  a  spring-hole."  Another  neighbor, 
who  prided  himself  on  his  knowledge  of  big 
words,  said  with  great  solemnity :  "  I  never  can 
believe  that  man  is  amphibious!" 

Natives  of  tropic  islands  pass  a  large  part  of 
their  lives  in  water,  and  seem  as  much  at  home 
in  the  sea  as  on  the  land ;  swim  and  dive,  pursue 
fishes,  play  in  the  waves  like  surf-ducks  and 
seals,  and  explore  the  coral  gardens  and  groves 
and  seaweed  meadows  as  if  truly  amphibious. 
Even  the  natives  of  the  far  north  bathe  at 
times.  I  once  saw  a  lot  of  Eskimo  boys  ducking 
and  plashing  right  merrily  in  the  Arctic  Ocean. 

It  seemed  very  wonderful  to  us  that  the  wild 
animals  could  keep  themselves  warm  and  strong 
in  winter  when  the  temperature  was  far  below 
zero.  Feeble-looking  rabbits  scud  away  over 
the  snow,  lithe  and  elastic,  as  if  glorying  in  the 
frosty,  sparkling  weather  and  sure  of  their  din- 
[  189  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

ners.  I  have  seen  gray  squirrels  dragging  ears  of 
corn  about  as  heavy  as  themselves  out  of  our 
field  through  loose  snow  and  up  a  tree,  balancing 
them  on  limbs  and  eating  in  comfort  with  their 
dry,  electric  tails  spread  airily  over  their  backs. 
Once  I  saw  a  fine  hardy  fellow  go  into  a  knot- 
hole. Thrusting  in  my  hand  I  caught  him  and 
pulled  him  out.  As  soon  as  he  guessed  what  I 
was  up  to,  he  took  the  end  of  my  thumb  in  his 
mouth  and  sunk  his  teeth  right  through  it,  but 
I  gripped  him  hard  by  the  neck,  carried  him 
home,  and  shut  him  up  in  a  box  that  contained 
about  half  a  bushel  of  hazel-  and  hickory-nuts, 
hoping  that  he  would  not  be  too  much  fright- 
ened and  discouraged  to  eat  while  thus  impris- 
oned after  the  rough  handling  he  had  suffered. 
I  soon  learned,  however,  that  sympathy  in  this 
direction  was  wasted,  for  no  sooner  did  I  pop 
him  in  than  he  fell  to  with  right  hearty  appe- 
tite, gnawing  and  munching  the  nuts  as  if  he 
had  gathered  them  himself  and  was  very 
hungry  that  day.  Therefore,  after  allowing 
time  enough  for  a  good  square  meal,  I  made 
[  190  1 


Young  Hunters 


haste  to  get  him  out  of  the  nut-box  and  shut 
him  up  in  a  spare  bedroom,  in  which  father 
had  hung  a  lot  of  selected  ears  of  Indian  corn 
for  seed.  They  were  hung  up  by  the  husks  on 
cords  stretched  across  from  side  to  side  of  the 
room.  The  squirrel  managed  to  jump  from  the 
top  of  one  of  the  bed-posts  to  the  cord,  cut  off 
an  ear,  and  let  it  drop  to  the  floor.  He  then 
jumped  down,  got  a  good  grip  of  the  heavy  ear, 
carried  it  to  the  top  of  one  of  the  slippery, 
polished  bed-posts,  seated  himself  comfortably, 
and,  holding  it  well  balanced,  deliberately 
pried  out  one  kernel  at  a  time  with  his  long 
chisel  teeth,  ate  the  soft,  sweet  germ,  and 
dropped  the  hard  part  of  the  kernel.  In  this 
masterly  way,  working  at  high  speed,  he  demol- 
ished several  ears  a  day,  and  with  a  good  warm 
bed  in  a  box  made  himself  at  home  and  grew  fat. 
Then  naturally,  I  suppose,  free  romping  in  the 
snow  and  tree-tops  with  companions  came  to 
mind.  Anyhow  he  began  to  look  for  a  way  of 
escape.  Of  course  he  first  tried  the  window,  but 
found  that  his  teeth  made  no  impression  on  the 
[  191  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

glass.  Next  he  tried  the  sash  and  gnawed  the 
wood  off  level  with  the  glass ;  then  father  hap- 
pened to  come  upstairs  and  discovered  the 
mischief  that  was  being  done  to  his  seed  corn 
and  window  and  immediately  ordered  him  out 
of  the  house. 

The  flying  squirrel  was  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting of  the  little  animals  we  found  in  the 
woods,  a  beautiful  brown  creature,  with  fine 
eyes  and  smooth,  soft  fur  like  that  of  a  mole  or 
field  mouse.  He  is  about  half  as  long  as  the 
gray  squirrel,  but  his  wide-spread  tail  and  the 
folds  of  skin  along  his  sides  that  form  the  wings 
make  him  look  broad  and  flat,  something  like  a 
kite.  In  the  evenings  our  cat  often  brought 
them  to  her  kittens  at  the  shanty,  and  later 
we  saw  them  fly  during  the  day  from  the  trees 
we  were  chopping.  They  jumped  and  glided 
off  smoothly  and  apparently  without  effort,  like 
birds,  as  soon  as  they  heard  and  felt  the  break- 
ing shock  of  the  strained  fibres  at  the  stump, 
when  the  trees  they  were  in  began  to  totter  and 
groan.  They  can  fly,  or  rather  glide,  twenty  or 
[  192  1 


Young  Hunters 


thirty  yards  from  the  top  of  a  tree  twenty  or 
thirty  feet  high  to  the  foot  of  another,  gliding 
upward  as  they  reach  the  trunk,  or  if  the  dis- 
tance is  too  great  they  alight  comfortably  on 
the  ground  and  make  haste  to  the  nearest 
tree,  and  climb  just  like  the  wingless  squirrels. 
Every  boy  and  girl  loves  the  little  fairy,  airy 
striped  chipmunk,  half  squirrel,  half  spermo- 
phile.  He  is  about  the  size  of  a  field  mouse,  and 
often  made  us  think  of  linnets  and  song  spar- 
rows as  he  frisked  about  gathering  nuts  and 
berries.  He  likes  almost  all  kinds  of  grain, 
berries,  and  nuts,  —  hazel-nuts,  hickory-nuts, 
strawberries,  huckleberries,  wheat,  oats,  corn, 
—  he  is  fond  of  them  all  and  thrives  on  them. 
Most  of  the  hazel  bushes  on  our  farm  grew 
along  the  fences  as  if  they  had  been  planted  for 
the  chipmunks  alone,  for  the  rail  fences  were 
their  favorite  highways.  We  never  wearied 
watching  them,  especially  when  the  hazel-nuts 
were  ripe  and  the  little  fellows  were  sitting  on 
the  rails  nibbling  and  handling  them  like  tree- 
squirrels.  We  used  to  notice  too  that,  although 
[  193  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

they  are  very  neat  animals,  their  lips  and  fin- 
gers were  dyed  red  like  our  own,  when  the  straw- 
berries and  huckleberries  were  ripe.  We  could 
always  tell  when  the  wheat  and  oats  were  in 
the  milk  by  seeing  the  chipmunks  feeding  on 
the  ears.  They  kept  nibbling  at  the  wheat  until 
it  was  harvested  and  then  gleaned  in  the  stub- 
ble, keeping  up  a  careful  watch  for  their  ene- 
mies, —  dogs,  hawks,  and  shrikes.  They  are  as 
widely  distributed  over  the  continent  as  the 
squirrels,  various  species  inhabiting  different 
regions  on  the  mountains  and  lowlands,  but  all 
the  different  kinds  have  the  same  general  char- 
acteristics of  light,  airy  cheerfulness  and  good 
nature. 

Before  the  arrival  of  farmers  in  the  Wiscon- 
sin woods  the  small  ground  squirrels,  called 
"gophers,"  lived  chiefly  on  the  seeds  of  wild 
grasses  and  weeds,  but  after  the  country  was 
cleared  and  ploughed  no  feasting  animal  fell  to 
more  heartily  on  the  farmer's  wheat  and  corn. 
Increasing  rapidly  in  numbers  and  knowledge, 
they  became  very  destructive,  especially  in  the 


Young  Hunters 


spring  when  the  corn  was  planted,  for  they 
learned  to  trace  the  rows  and  dig  up  and  eat  the 
three  or  four  seeds  in  each  hill  about  as  fast  as 
the  poor  farmers  could  cover  them.  And  unless 
great  pains  were  taken  to  diminish  the  numbers 
of  the  cunning  little  robbers,  the  fields  had  to 
be  planted  two  or  three  times  over,  and  even 
then  large  gaps  in  the  rows  would  be  found. 
The  loss  of  the  grain  they  consumed  after  it 
was  ripe,  together  with  the  winter  stores  laid 
up  in  their  burrows,  amounted  to  little  as  com- 
pared with  the  loss  of  the  seed  on  which  the 
whole  crop  depended. 

One  evening  about  sundown,  when  my  father 
sent  me  out  with  the  shotgun  to  hunt  them  in  a 
stubble  field,  I  learned  something  curious  and 
interesting  in  connection  with  these  mischiev- 
ous gophers,  though  just  then  they  were  doing 
no  harm.  As  I  strolled  through  the  stubble 
watching  for  a  chance  for  a  shot,  a  shrike  flew 
past  me  and  alighted  on  an  open  spot  at  the 
mouth  of  a  burrow  about  thirty  yards  ahead  of 
me.  Curious  to  see  what  he  was  up  to,  I  stood 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

still  to  watch  him.  He  looked  down  the  gopher 
hole  in  a  listening  attitude,  then  looked  back 
at  me  to  see  if  I  was  coming,  looked  down  again 
and  listened,  and  looked  back  at  me.  I  stood 
perfectly  still,  and  he  kept  twitching  his  tail, 
seeming  uneasy  and  doubtful  about  venturing 
to  do  the  savage  job  that  I  soon  learned  he  had 
in  his  mind.  Finally,  encouraged  by  my  keep- 
ing so  still,  to  my  astonishment  he  suddenly 
vanished  in  the  gopher  hole. 

A  bird  going  down  a  deep  narrow  hole  in  the 
ground  like  a  ferret  or  a  weasel  seemed  very 
strange,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  a  fine  thing 
to  run  forward,  clap  my  hand  over  the  hole, 
and  have  the  fun  of  imprisoning  him  and  seeing 
what  he  would  do  when  he  tried  to  get  out.  So 
I  ran  forward  but  stopped  when  I  got  within  a 
dozen  or  fifteen  yards  of  the  hole,  thinking  it 
might  perhaps  be  more  interesting  to  wait  and 
see  what  would  naturally  happen  without  my 
interference.  While  I  stood  there  looking  and 
listening,  I  heard  a  great  disturbance  going 
on  in  the  burrow,  a  mixed  lot  of  keen  squeak- 
[  196  1 


i 


fl 


«v 


COMBINED    THERMOMETER,    HYGROMETER,     BAROMETER 
AND    PYROMETER 

Invented  by  the  author  in  his  boyhood 


Young  Hunters 


ing,  shrieking,  distressful  cries,  telling  that  down 
in  the  dark  something  terrible  was  being  done. 
Then  suddenly  out  popped  a  half-grown  gopher, 
four  and  a  half  or  five  inches  long,  and,  with- 
out stopping  a  single  moment  to  choose  a  way 
of  escape,  ran  screaming  through  the  stubble 
straight  away  from  its  home,  quickly  followed 
by  another  and  another,  until  some  half-dozen 
were  driven  out,  all  of  them  crying  and  running 
in  different  directions  as  if  at  this  dreadful  time 
home,  sweet  home,  was  the  most  dangerous  and 
least  desirable  of  any  place  in  the  wide  world. 
Then  out  came  the  shrike,  flew  above  the  run- 
away gopher  children,  and,  diving  on  them, 
killed  them  one  after  another  with  blows  at  the 
back  of  the  skull.  He  then  seized  one  of  them, 
dragged  it  to  the  top  of  a  small  clod  so  as  to  be 
able  to  get  a  start,  and  laboriously  made  out 
to  fly  with  it  about  ten  or  fifteen  yards,  when 
he  alighted  to  rest.  Then  he  dragged  it  to  the 
top  of  another  clod  and  flew  with  it  about  the 
same  distance,  repeating  this  hard  work  over 
and  over  again  until  he  managed  to  get  one 
[  i97l 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

of  the  gophers  on  to  the  top  of  a  log  fence.  How 
much  he  ate  of  his  hard-won  prey,  or  what  he 
did  with  the  others,  I  can't  tell,  for  by  this  time 
the  sun  was  down  and  I  had  to  hurry  home  to 
my  chores. 


VI 

THE    PLOUGHBOY 

The  Crops  —  Doing  Chores  —  The  Sights  and  Sounds  of 
Winter  —  Road-making  —  The  Spirit-rapping  Craze  — 
Tuberculosis  among  the  Settlers  —  A  Cruel  Brother  —  The 
Rights  of  the  Indians  —  Put  to  the  Plough  at  the  Age  of 
Twelve  —  In  the  Harvest-Field  —  Over-Industry  among 
the  Settlers  —  Running  the  Breaking-Plough  —  Digging  a 
Well  —  Choke-Damp  —  Lining  Bees. 

AT  first,  wheat,  corn,  and  potatoes  were 
the  principal  crops  we  raised ;  wheat 
especially.   But  in  four  or  five  years 
the  soil  was  so  exhausted  that  only  five  or  six 
bushels  an  acre,  even  in  the  better  fields,  was 
obtained,  although  when  first  ploughed  twenty 
and  twenty-five  bushels  was  about  the  ordin- 
ary yield.    More  attention  was  then  paid  to 
corn,  but  without  fertilizers  the  corn-crop  also 
became  very  meagre.  At  last  it  was  discovered 
that  English  clover  would  grow  on  even  the 
exhausted  fields,  and  that  when  ploughed  under 
and  planted  with  corn,  or  even  wheat,  wonder- 
[  i99  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

ful  crops  were  raised.  This  caused  a  complete 
change  in  farming  methods;  the  farmers  raised 
fertilizing  clover,  planted  corn,  and  fed  the 
crop  to  cattle  and  hogs. 

But  no  crop  raised  in  our  wilderness  was  so 
surprisingly  rich  and  sweet  and  purely  generous 
to  us  boys  and,  indeed,  to  everybody  as  the 
watermelons  and  muskmelons.  We  planted  a 
large  patch  on  a  sunny  hill-slope  the  very  first 
spring,  and  it  seemed  miraculous  that  a  few 
handfuls  of  little  flat  seeds  should  in  a  few 
months  send  up  a  hundred  wagon-loads  of 
crisp,  sumptuous,  red-hearted  and  yellow- 
hearted  fruits  covering  all  the  hill.  We  soon 
learned  to  know  when  they  were  in  their  prime, 
and  when  over-ripe  and  mealy.  Also  that  if  a 
second  crop  was  taken  from  the  same  ground 
without  fertilizing  it,  the  melons  would  be 
small  and  what  we  called  soapy;  that  is,  soft 
and  smooth,  utterly  uncrisp,  and  without  a 
trace  of  the  lively  freshness  and  sweetness  of 
those  raised  on  virgin  soil.  Coming  in  from 
the  farm  work  at  noon,  the  half-dozen  or  so  of 
[  200  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


melons  we  had  placed  in  our  cold  spring  were 
a  glorious  luxury  that  only  weary  barefooted 
farm  boys  can  ever  know. 

Spring  was  not  very  trying  as  to  tempera- 
ture, and  refreshing  rains  fell  at  short  intervals. 
The  work  of  ploughing  commenced  as  soon  as 
the  frost  was  out  of  the  ground..  Corn-  and 
potato-planting  and  the  sowing  of  spring  wheat 
was  comparatively  light  work,  while  the  nest- 
ing birds  sang  cheerily,  grass  and  flowers  cov- 
ered the  marshes  and  meadows  and  all  the  wild, 
uncleared  parts  of  the  farm,  and  the  trees  put 
forth  their  new  leaves,  those  of  the  oaks  form- 
ing beautiful  purple  masses  as  if  every  leaf  were 
a  petal;  and  with  all  this  we  enjoyed  the  mild 
soothing  winds,  the  humming  of  innumerable 
small  insects  and  hylas,  and  the  freshness  and 
fragrance  of  everything.  Then,  too,  came  the 
wonderful  passenger  pigeons  streaming  from 
the  south,  and  flocks  of  geese  and  cranes,  filling 
all  the  sky  with  whistling  wings. 

The  summer  work,  on  the  contrary,  was 
deadly  heavy,  especially  harvesting  and  corn- 
[  201  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

hoeing.  All  the  ground  had  to  be  hoed  over  for 
the  first  few  years,  before  father  bought  culti- 
vators or  small  weed-covering  ploughs,  and 
we  were  not  allowed  a  moment's  rest.  The 
hoes  had  to  be  kept  working  up  and  down  as 
steadily  as  if  they  were  moved  by  machinery. 
Ploughing  for  winter  wheat  was  comparatively 
easy,  when  we  walked  barefooted  in  the  fur- 
rows, while  the  fine  autumn  tints  kindled  in 
the  woods,  and  the  hillsides  were  covered  with 
golden  pumpkins. 

In  summer  the  chores  were  grinding  scythes, 
feeding  the  animals,  chopping  stove-wood,  and 
carrying  water  up  the  hill  from  the  spring  on 
the  edge  of  the  meadow,  etc.  Then  breakfast, 
and  to  the  harvest  or  hay-field.  I  was  foolishly 
ambitious  to  be  first  in  mowing  and  cradling, 
and  by  the  time  I  was  sixteen  led  all  the  hired 
men.  An  hour  was  allowed  at  noon  for  dinner 
and  more  chores.  We  stayed  in  the  field  until 
dark,  then  supper,  and  still  more  chores,  family 
worship,  and  to  bed;  making  altogether  a  hard, 
sweaty  day  of  about  sixteen  or  seventeen  hours. 
[  202  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


Think  of  that,  ye  blessed  eight -hour -day 
laborers! 

In  winter  father  came  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  and  called  us  at  six  o'clock  to  feed  the 
horses  and  cattle,  grind  axes,  bring  in  wood, 
and  do  any  other  chores  required,  then  break- 
fast, and  out  to  work  in  the  mealy,  frosty  snow 
by  daybreak,  chopping,  fencing,  etc.  So  in 
general  our  winter  work  was  about  as  restless 
and  trying  as  that  of  the  long-day  summer.  No 
matter  what  the  weather,  there  was  always 
something  to  do.  During  heavy  rains  or  snow- 
storms we  worked  in  the  barn,  shelling  corn, 
fanning  wheat,  thrashing  with  the  flail,  making 
axe-handles  or  ox-yokes,  mending  things,  or 
sprouting  and  sorting  potatoes  in  the  cellar. 

No  pains  were  taken  to  diminish  or  in  any 
way  soften  the  natural  hardships  of  this  pioneer 
farm  life ;  nor  did  any  of  the  Europeans  seem 
to  know  how  to  find  reasonable  ease  and  com- 
fort if  they  would.  The  very  best  oak  and  hick- 
ory fuel  was  embarrassingly  abundant  and  cost 
nothing  but  cutting  and  common  sense;  but 
[  203  I 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

instead  of  hauling  great  heart-cheering  loads 
of  it  for  wide,  open,  all-welcoming,  climate- 
changing,  beauty-making,  Godlike  ingle-fires, 
it  was  hauled  with  weary  heart-breaking  indus- 
try into  fences  and  waste  places  to  get  it  out 
of  the  way  of  the  plough,  and  out  of  the  way  of 
doing  good.  The  only  fire  for  the  whole  house 
was  the  kitchen  stove,  with  a  fire-box  about 
eighteen  inches  long  and  eight  inches  wide  and 
deep,  —  scant  space  for  three  or  four  small 
sticks,  around  which  in  hard  zero  weather  all 
the  family  of  ten  persons  shivered,  and  beneath 
which  in  the  morning  we  found  our  socks  and 
coarse,  soggy  boots  frozen  solid.  We  were  not 
allowed  to  start  even  this  despicable  little  fire 
in  its  black  box  to  thaw  them.  No,  we  had 
to  squeeze  our  throbbing,  aching,  chilblained 
feet  into  them,  causing  greater  pain  than 
toothache,  and  hurry  out  to  chores.  Fortun- 
ately the  miserable  chilblain  pain  began  to 
abate  as  soon  as  the  temperature  of  our  feet 
approached  the  freezing-point,  enabling  us  in 
spite  of  hard  work  and  hard  frost  to  enjoy  the 
[  204  ] 


"The  Ploughboy 


winter  beauty,  —  the  wonderful  radiance  of 
the  snow  when  it  was  starry  with  crystals,  and 
the  dawns  and  the  sunsets  and  white  noons, 
and  the  cheery,  enlivening  company  of  the 
brave  chickadees  and  nuthatches. 

The  winter  stars  far  surpassed  those  of  our 
stormy  Scotland  in  brightness,  and  we  gazed 
and  gazed  as  though  we  had  never  seen  stars 
before.  Oftentimes  the  heavens  were  made 
still  more  glorious  by  auroras,  the  long  lance 
rays,  called  "Merry  Dancers"  in  Scotland, 
streaming  with  startling  tremulous  motion  to 
the  zenith.  Usually  the  electric  auroral  light  is 
white  or  pale  yellow,  but  in  the  third  or  fourth 
of  our  Wisconsin  winters  there  was  a  magni- 
ficently colored  aurora  that  was  seen  and  ad- 
mired over  nearly  all  the  continent.  The  whole 
sky  was  draped  in  graceful  purple  and  crimson 
folds  glorious  beyond  description.  Father 
called  us  out  into  the  yard  in  front  of  the  house 
where  we  had  a  wide  view,  crying,  "Come! 
Come,  mother !  Come,  bairns !  and  see  the  glory 
of  God.  All  the  sky  is  clad  in  a  robe  of  red  light. 
[  205  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

Look  straight  up  to  the  crown  where  the  folds 
are  gathered.  Hush  and  wonder  and  adore, 
for  surely  this  is  the  clothing  of  the  Lord  Him- 
self, and  perhaps  He  will  even  now  appear 
looking  down  from  his  high  heaven."  This 
celestial  show  was  far  more  glorious  than  any- 
thing we  had  ever  yet  beheld,  and  throughout 

that  wonderful  winter  hardly  anything  else 

^ 

was  spoken  of. 

We  even  enjoyed  the  snowstorms,  the  throng- 
ing crystals,  like  daisies,  coming  down  separate 
and  distinct,  were  very  different  from  the 
tufted  flakes  we  enjoyed  so  much  in  Scotland, 
when  we  ran  into  the  midst  of  the  slow-falling 
feathery  throng  shouting  with  enthusiasm: 
"Jennie 's  plucking  her  doos !  Jennie 's  plucking 
her  doos  (doves)!" 

Nature  has  many  ways  of  thinning  and  prun- 
ing and  trimming  her  forests,  —  lightning- 
strokes,  heavy  snow,  and  storm-winds  to  shat- 
ter and  blow  down  whole  trees  here  and  there 
or  break  off  branches  as  required.  The  results 
of  these  methods  I  have  observed  in  different 
[  206  ] 


Ploughboy 


forests,  but  only  once  have  I  seen  pruning  by 
rain.  The  rain  froze  on  the  trees  as  it  fell  and 
grew  so  thick  and  heavy  that  many  of  them 
lost  a  third  or  more  of  their  branches.  The  view 
of  the  woods  after  the  storm  had  passed  and 
the  sun  shone  forth  was  something  never  to  be 
forgotten.  Every  twig  and  branch  and  rugged 
trunk  was  encased  in  pure  crystal  ice,  and  each 
oak  and  hickory  and  willow  became  a  fairy 
crystal  palace.  Such  dazzling  brilliance,  such 
effects  of  white  light  and  irised  light  glowing 
and  flashing  I  had  never  seen  before,  nor  have  I 
since.  This  sudden  change  of  the  leafless  woods 
to  glowing  silver  was,  like  the  great  aurora, 
spoken  of  for  years,  and  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  many  pictures  that  enriches 
my  life.  And  besides  the  great  shows  there 
were  thousands  of  others  even  in  the  coldest 
weather  manifesting  the  utmost  fineness  and 
tenderness  of  beauty  and  affording  noble  com- 
pensation for  hardship  and  pain. 

One  of  the  most  striking  of  the  winter  sounds 
was  the  loud  roaring  and  rumbling  of  the  ice 
[  207  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

on  our  lake,  from  its  shrinking  and  expanding 
with  the  changes  of  the  weather.  The  fisher- 
men who  were  catching  pickerel  said  that  they 
had  no  luck  when  this  roaring  was  going  on 
above  the  fish.  I  remember  how  frightened  we 
boys  were  when  on  one  of  our  New  Year  holi- 
days we  were  taking  a  walk  on  the  ice  and 
heard  for  the  first  time  the  sudden  rumbling 
roar  beneath  our  feet  and  running  on  ahead 
of  us,  creaking  and  whooping  as  if  all  the  ice 
eighteen  or  twenty  inches  thick  was  breaking. 
In  the  neighborhood  of  our  Wisconsin  farm 
there  were  extensive  swamps  consisting  in  great 
part  of  a  thick  sod  of  very  tough  carex  roots 
covering  thin,  watery  lakes  of  mud.  They 
originated  in  glacier  lakes  that  were  gradually 
overgrown.  This  sod  was  so  tough  that  oxen 
with  loaded  wagons  could  be  driven  over  it 
without  cutting  down  through  it,  although  it 
was  afloat.  The  carpenters  who  came  to  build 
our  frame  house,  noticing  how  the  sedges  sunk 
beneath  their  feet,  said  that  if  they  should 
break  through,  they  would  probably  be  well  on 
[  208  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


their  way  to  California  before  touching  bottom. 
On  the  contrary,  all  these  lake-basins  are  shal- 
low as  compared  with  their  width.  When  we 
went  into  the  Wisconsin  woods  there  was  not 
a  single  wheel-track  or  cattle-track.  The  only 
man-made  road  was  an  Indian  trail  along  the 
Fox  River  between  Portage  and  Packwauckee 
Lake.  Of  course  the  deer,  foxes,  badgers,  coons, 
skunks,  and  even  the  squirrels  had  well-beaten 
tracks  from  their  dens  and  hiding-places  in 
thickets,  hollow  trees,  and  the  ground,  but  they 
did  not  reach  far,  and  but  little  noise  was  made 
by  the  soft-footed  travelers  in  passing  over 
them,  only  a  slight  rustling  and  swishing  among 
fallen  leaves  and  grass. 

Corduroying  the  swamps  formed  the  prin- 
cipal part  of  road -making  among  the  early 
settlers  for  many  a  day.  At  these  annual  road- 
making  gatherings  opportunity  was  offered  for 
discussion  of  the  news,  politics,  religion,  war, 
the  state  of  the  crops,  comparative  advantages 
of  the  new  country  over  the  old,  and  so  forth, 
but  the  principal  opportunities,  recurring  every 
[  209  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

week,  were  the  hours  after  Sunday  church  serv- 
ices. I  remember  hearing  long  talks  on  the 
wonderful  beauty  of  the  Indian  corn;  the  won- 
derful melons,  so  wondrous  fine  for  "sloken  a 
body  on  hot  days";  their  contempt  for  toma- 
toes, so  fine  to  look  at  with  their  sunny  colors 
and  so  disappointing  in  taste;  the  miserable 
cucumbers  the  "  Yankee  bodies "  ate,  though 
tasteless  as  rushes;  the  character  of  the  Yan- 
kees, etcetera.  Then  there  were  long  discussions 
about  the  Russian  war,  news  of  which  was 
eagerly  gleaned  from  Greeley's  "New  York 
Tribune";  the  great  battles  of  the  Alma,  the 
charges  at  Balaklava  and  Inkerman;  the  siege 
of  Sebastopol ;  the  military  genius  of  Todleben ; 
the  character  of  Nicholas;  the  character  of  the 
Russian  soldier,  his  stubborn  bravery,  who  for 
the  first  time  in  history  withstood  the  British 
bayonet  charges;  the  probable  outcome  of  the 
terrible  war;  the  fate  of  Turkey,  and  so  forth. 
Very  few  of  our  old-country  neighbors  gave 
much  heed  to  what  are  called  spirit-rappings. 
On  the  contrary,  they  were  regarded  as  a  sort 
[  210  ] 


"The  Ploughboy 


of  sleight-of-hand  humbug.  Some  of  these 
spirits  seem  to  be  stout  able-bodied  fellows, 
judging  by  the  weights  they  lift  and  the  heavy 
furniture  they  bang  about.  But  they  do  no 
good  work  that  I  know  of;  never  saw  wood, 
grind  corn,  cook,  feed  the  hungry,  or  go  to  the 
help  of  poor  anxious  mothers  at  the  bedsides 
of  their  sick  children.  I  noticed  when  I  was  a 
boy  that  it  was  not  the  strongest  characters 
who  followed  so-called  mediums.  When  a 
rapping-storm  was  at  its  height  in  Wisconsin, 
one  of  our  neighbors,  an  old  Scotchman,  re- 
marked, "Thay  puir  silly  medium-bodies  may 
gang  to  the  deil  wi'  their  rappin'  speerits,  for 
they  dae  nae  gude,  and  I  think  the  deiPs  their 
fayther." 

Although  in  the  spring  of  1849  there  was  no 
other  settler  within  a  radius  of  four  miles  of  our 
Fountain  Lake  farm,  in  three  or  four  years 
almost  every  quarter-section  of  government 
land  was  taken  up,  mostly  by  enthusiastic  home- 
seekers  from  Great  Britain,  with  only  here  and 
there  Yankee  families  from  adjacent  states, 
[  211  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

who  had  come  drifting  indefinitely  westward 
in  covered  wagons,  seeking  their  fortunes  like 
winged  seeds;  all  alike  striking  root  and  grip- 
ping the  glacial  drift  soil  as  naturally  as  oak 
and  hickory  trees;  happy  and  hopeful,  estab- 
lishing homes  and  making  wider  and  wider 
fields  in  the  hospitable  wilderness.  The  axe 
and  plough  were  kept  very  busy;  cattle,  horses, 
sheep,  and  pigs  multiplied;  barns  and  corn- 
cribs  were  filled  up,  and  man  and  beast  were 
well  fed;  a  schoolhouse  was  built,  which  was 
used  also  for  a  church;  and  in  a  very  short  time 
the  new  country  began  to  look  like  an  old  one. 
Comparatively  few  of  the  first  settlers  suf- 
fered from  serious  accidents.  One  of  our  neigh- 
bors had  a  finger  shot  off,  and  on  a  bitter,  frosty 
night  had  to  be  taken  to  a  surgeon  in  Portage, 
in  a  sled  drawn  by  slow,  plodding  oxen,  to  have 
the  shattered  stump  dressed.  Another  fell  from 
his  wagon  and  was  killed  by  the  wheel  passing 
over  his  body.  An  acre  of  ground  was  reserved 
and  fenced  for  graves,  and  soon  consumption 
came  to  fill  it.  One  of  the  saddest  instances 
[  212  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


was  that  of  a  Scotch  family  from  Edinburgh, 
consisting  of  a  father,  son,  and  daughter,  who 
settled  on  eighty  acres  of  land  within  half  a 
mile  of  our  place.  The  daughter  died  of  con- 
sumption the  third  year  after  their  arrival,  the 
son  one  or  two  years  later,  and  at  last  the  father 
followed  his  two  children.  Thus  sadly  ended 
bright  hopes  and  dreams  of  a  happy  home  in 
rich  and  free  America. 

Another  neighbor,  I  remember,  after  a  linger- 
ing illness  died  of  the  same  disease  in  mid- 
winter, and  his  funeral  was  attended  by  the 
neighbors  in  sleighs  during  a  driving  snowstorm 
when  the  thermometer  was  fifteen  or  twenty 
degrees  below  zero.  The  great  white  plague 
carried  off  another  of  our  near  neighbors,  a  fine 
Scotchman,  the  father  of  eight  promising  boys, 
when  he  was  only  about  forty-five  years  of  age. 
Most  of  those  who  suffered  from  this  disease 
seemed  hopeful  and  cheerful  up  to  a  very  short 
time  before  their  death,  but  Mr.  Reid,  I  re- 
member, on  one  of  his  last  visits  to  our  house, 
said  with  brave  resignation:  "I  know  that 
[  213  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

never  more  in  this  world  can  I  be  well,  but  I 
must  just  submit.  I  must  just  submit." 

One  of  the  saddest  deaths  from  other  causes 
than  consumption  was  that  of  a  poor  feeble- 
minded man  whose  brother,  a  sturdy  black- 
smith and  preacher,  etc.,  was  a  very  hard  task- 
master. Poor  half-witted  Charlie  was  kept 
steadily  at  work,  —  although  he  was  not  able 
to  do  much,  for  his  body  was  about  as  feeble 
as  his  mind.  He  never  could  be  taught  the 
right  use  of  an  axe,  and  when  he  was  set  to 
chopping  down  trees  for  firewood  he  feebly 
hacked  and  chipped  round  and  round  them, 
sometimes  spending  several  days  in  nibbling 
down  a  tree  that  a  beaver  might  have  gnawed 
down  in  half  the  time.  Occasionally  when  he  had 
an  extra  large  tree  to  chop,  he  would  go  home 
and  report  that  the  tree  was  too  tough  and  strong 
for  him  and  that  he  could  never  make  it  fall. 
Then  his  brother,  calling  him  a  useless  creature, 
would  fell  it  with  a  few  well-directed  strokes, 
and  leave  Charlie  to  nibble  away  at  it  for 
weeks  trying  to  make  it  into  stove-wood. 
[  214  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


The  brawny  blacksmith  minister  punished 
his  feeble  brother  without  any  show  of  mercy 
for  every  trivial  offense  or  mistake  or  pathetic 
little  shortcoming.  All  the  neighbors  pitied 
him,  especially  the  women,  who  never  missed 
an  opportunity  to  give  him  kind  words,  cookies, 
and  pie;  above  all,  they  bestowed  natural 
sympathy  on  the  poor  imbecile  as  if  he  were 
an  unfortunate  motherless  child.  In  particu- 
lar, his  nearest  neighbors,  Scotch  Highlanders, 
warmly  welcomed  him  to  their  home  and  never 
wearied  in  doing  everything  that  tender  sym- 
pathy could  suggest.  To  those  friends  he  ran 
away  at  every  opportunity.  But  after  years  of 
suffering  from  overwork  and  punishment  his 
feeble  health  failed,  and  he  told  his  Scotch 
friends  one  day  that  he  was  not  able  to  work  any 
more  or  do  anything  that  his  brother  wanted 
him  to  do,  that  he  was  beaten  every  day, 
and  that  he  had  come  to  thank  them  for  their 
kindness  and  to  bid  them  good-bye,  for  he  was 
going  to  drown  himself  in  Muir's  lake.  "Oh, 
Charlie!  Charlie!"  they  cried,  "you  mustn't 
[  215  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

talk  that  way.  Cheer  up!  You  will  soon  be 
stronger.  We  all  love  you.  Cheer  up!  Cheer 
up !  And  always  come  here  whenever  you  need 
anything." 

"Oh,  no!"  he  pathetically  replied,  "I  know 
you  love  me,  but  I  can't  cheer  up  any  more. 
My  heart's  gone,  and  I  want  to  die." 

Next  day,  when  Mr.  Anderson,  a  carpenter 
whose  house  was  on  the  west  shore  of  our  lake, 
was  going  to  a  spring  he  saw  a  man  wade  out 
through  the  rushes  and  lily-pads  and  throw 
himself  forward  into  deep  water.  This  was 
poor  Charlie.  Fortunately,  Mr.  Anderson  had 
a  skiff  close  by,  and  as  the  distance  was  not 
great  he  reached  the  broken-hearted  imbecile 
in  time  to  save  his  life,  and  after  trying  to  cheer 
him  took  him  home  to  his  brother.  But  even 
this  terrible  proof  of  despair  failed  to  soften  the 
latter.  He  seemed  to  regard  the  attempt  at 
suicide  simply  as  a  crime  calculated  to  bring 
the  reproach  of  the  neighbors  upon  him.  One 
morning,  after  receiving  another  beating, 
Charlie  was  set  to  work  chopping  firewood  in 
[  216  ] 


"The  Ploughboy 


front  of  the  house,  and  after  feebly  swinging  his 
axe  a  few  times  he  pitched  forward  on  his  face 
and  died  on  the  wood-pile.  The  unnatural 
brother  then  walked  over  to  the  neighbor  who 
had  saved  Charlie  from  drowning,  and  after 
talking  on  ordinary  affairs,  crops,  the  weather, 
etc.,  said  in  a  careless  tone:  "I  have  a  little  job 
of  carpenter  work  for  you,  Mr.  Anderson." 

"What  is  it,  Mr. ?"  "I  want  you  to  make 

a  coffin."  "A  coffin!"  said  the  startled  car- 
penter. "Who  is  dead?"  "Charlie,"  he  coolly 
replied.  All  the  neighbors  were  in  tears  over 
the  poor  child  man's  fate.  But,  strange  to  say, 
in  all  that  excessively  law-abiding  neighbor- 
hood none  was  bold  enough  or  kind  enough  to 
break  the  blacksmith's  jaw. 

The  mixed  lot  of  settlers  around  us  offered  a 
favorable  field  for  observation  of  the  different 
kinds  of  people  of  our  own  race.  We  were  swift 
to  note  the  way  they  behaved,  the  differences 
in  their  religion  and  morals,  and  in  their  ways 
of  drawing  a  living  from  the  same  kind  of  soil 
under  the  same  general  conditions;  how  they 
[  217  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

protected  themselves  from  the  weather;  how 
they  were  influenced  by  new  doctrines  and  old 
ones  seen  in  new  lights  in  preaching,  lecturing, 
debating,  bringing  up  their  children,  etc.,  and 
how  they  regarded  the  Indians,  those  first 
settlers  and  owners  of  the  ground  that  was  being 
made  into  farms. 

I  well  remember  my  father's  discussing  with 
a  Scotch  neighbor,  a  Mr.  George  Mair,  the 
Indian  question  as  to  the  rightful  ownership 
of  the  soil.  Mr.  Mair  remarked  one  day  that  it 
was  pitiful  to  see  how  the  unfortunate  Indians, 
children  of  Nature,  living  on  the  natural  pro- 
ducts of  the  soil,  hunting,  fishing,  and  even 
cultivating  small  corn-fields  on  the  most  fertile 
spots,  were  now  being  robbed  of  their  lands  and 
pushed  ruthlessly  back  into  narrower  and  nar- 
rower limits  by  alien  races  who  were  cutting 
off  their  means  of  livelihood.  Father  replied 
that  surely  it  could  never  have  been  the  inten- 
tion of  God  to  allow  Indians  to  rove  and  hunt 
over  so  fertile  a  country  and  hold  it  forever  in 
unproductive  wildness,  while  Scotch  and  Irish 
1  218  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


and  English  farmers  could  put  it  to  so  much 
better  use.  Where  an  Indian  required  thou- 
sands of  acres  for  his  family,  these  acres  in  the 
hands  of  industrious,  God  -  fearing  farmers 
would  support  ten  or  a  hundred  times  more 
people  in  a  far  worthier  manner,  while  at  the 
same  time  helping  to  spread  the  gospel. 

Mr.  Mair  urged  that  such  farming  as  our 
first  immigrants  were  practicing  was  in  many 
ways  rude  and  full  of  the  mistakes  of  ignorance, 
yet,  rude  as  it  was,  and  ill-tilled  as  were  most 
of  our  Wisconsin  farms  by  unskillful,  inexperi- 
enced settlers  who  had  been  merchants  and 
mechanics  and  servants  in  the  old  countries, 
how  should  we  like  to  have  specially  trained 
and  educated  farmers  drive  us  out  of  our  homes 
and  farms,  such  as  they  were,  making  use  of 
the  same  argument,  that  God  could  never  have 
intended  such  ignorant,  unprofitable,  devastat- 
ing farmers  as  we  were  to  occupy  land  upon 
which  scientific  farmers  could  raise  five  or  ten 
times  as  much  on  each  acre  as  we  did  ?  And  I 
well  remember  thinking  that  Mr.  Mair  had  the 
[  219  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

better  side  of  the  argument.  It  then  seemed 
to  me  that,  whatever  the  final  outcome  might 
be,  it  was  at  this  stage  of  the  fight  only  an  ex- 
ample of  the  rule  of  might  with  but  little  or  no 
thought  for  the  right  or  welfare  of  the  other 
fellow  if  he  were  the  weaker;  that  "they  should 
take  who  had  the  power,  and  they  should  keep 
who  can/'  as  Wordsworth  makes  the  marauding 
Scottish  Highlanders  say. 

Many  of  our  old  neighbors  toiled  and 
sweated  and  grubbed  themselves  into  their 
graves  years  before  their  natural  dying  days, 
in  getting  a  living  on  a  quarter-section  of  land 
and  vaguely  trying  to  get  rich,  while  bread 
and  raiment  might  have  been  serenely  won  on 
less  than  a  fourth  of  this  land,  and  time  gained 
to  get  better  acquainted  with  God. 

I  was  put  to  the  plough  at  the  age  of  twelve, 
when  my  head  reached  but  little  above  the 
handles,  and  for  many  years  I  had  to  do  the 
greater  part  of  the  ploughing.  It  was  hard  work 
for  so  small  a  boy ;  nevertheless,  as  good  plough- 
ing was  exacted  from  me  as  if  I  were  a  man,  and 
[  220  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


very  soon  I  had  to  become  a  good  ploughman, 
or  rather  ploughboy.  None  could  draw  a 
straighter  furrow.  For  the  first  few  years  the 
work  was  particularly  hard  on  account  of  the 
tree-stumps  that  had  to  be  dodged.  Later  the 
stumps  were  all  dug  and  chopped  out  to  make 
way  for  the  McCormick  reaper,  and  because  I 
proved  to  be  the  best  chopper  and  stump-digger 
I  had  nearly  all  of  it  to  myself.  It  was  dull,  hard 
work  leaning  over  on  my  knees  all  day,  chop- 
ping out  those  tough  oak  and  hickory  stumps, 
deep  down  below  the  crowns  of  the  big  roots. 
Some,  though  fortunately  not  many,  were  two 
feet  or  more  in  diameter. 

And  as  I  was  the  eldest  boy,  the  greater  part 
of  all  the  other  hard  work  of  the  farm  quite 
naturally  fell  on  me.  I  had  to  split  rails  for 
long  lines  of  zigzag  fences.  The  trees  that  were 
tall  enough  and  straight  enough  to  afford  one 
or  two  logs  ten  feet  long  were  used  for  rails, 
the  others,  too  knotty  or  cross-grained,  were 
disposed  of  in  log  and  cordwood  fences.  Mak- 
ing rails  was  hard  work  and  required  no  little 

[    221    ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

skill.  I  used  to  cut  and  split  a  hundred  a  day 
from  our  short,  knotty  oak  timber,  swinging 
the  axe  and  heavy  mallet,  often  with  sore  hands, 
from  early  morning  to  night.  Father  was  not 
successful  as  a  rail-splitter.  After  trying  the 
work  with  me  a  day  or  two,  he  in  despair  left 
•  it  all  to  me.  I  rather  liked  it,  for  I  was  proud  of 
my  skill,  and  tried  to  believe  that  I  was  as 
tough  as  the  timber  I  mauled,  though  this  and 
other  heavy  jobs  stopped  my  growth  and  earned 
for  me  the  title  "Runt  of  the  family." 

In  those  early  days,  long  before  the  great 
labor-saving  machines  came  to  our  help,  al- 
most everything  connected  with  wheat-raising 
abounded  in  trying  work,  —  cradling  in  the 
long,  sweaty  dog-days,  raking  and  binding, 
stacking,  thrashing,  —  and  it  often  seemed  to 
me  that  our  fierce,  over-industrious  way  of  get- 
ting the  grain  from  the  ground  was  too  closely 
connected  with  grave-digging.  The  staff  of  life, 
naturally  beautiful,  oftentimes  suggested  the 
grave-digger's  spade.  Men  and  boys,  and  in 
those  days  even  women  and  girls,  were  cut 
[  222  ] 


"The  Ploughboy 


down  while  cutting  the  wheat.  The  fat  folk 
grew  lean  and  the  lean  leaner,  while  the  rosy 
cheeks  brought  from  Scotland  and  other  cool 
countries  across  the  sea  faded  to  yellow  like  the 
wheat.  We  were  all  made  slaves  through  the 
vice  of  over-industry.  The  same  was  in  great 
part  true  in  making  hay  to  keep  the  cattle  and 
horses  through  the  long  winters.  We  were 
called  in  the  morning  at  four  o'clock  and  seldom 
got  to  bed  before  nine,  making  a  broiling, 
seething  day  seventeen  hours  long  loaded  with 
heavy  work,  while  I  was  only  a  small  stunted 
boy;  and  a  few  years  later  my  brothers  David 
and  Daniel  and  my  older  sisters  had  to  endure 
about  as  much  as  I  did.  In  the  harvest  dog- 
days  and  dog-nights  and  dog-mornings,  when 
we  arose  from  our  clammy  beds,  our  cotton 
shirts  clung  to  our  backs  as  wet  with  sweat  as 
the  bathing-suits  of  swimmers,  and  remained 
so  all  the  long,  sweltering  days.  In  mowing  and 
cradling,  the  most  exhausting  of  all  the  farm 
work,  I  made  matters  worse  by  foolish  ambition 
in  keeping  ahead  of  the  hired  men.  Never  a 
[  223  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

warning  word  was  spoken  of  the  dangers  of 
over-work.  On  the  contrary,  even  when  sick 
we  were  held  to  our  tasks  as  long  as  we  could 
stand.  Once  in  harvest-time  I  had  the  mumps 
and  was  unable  to  swallow  any  food  except 
milk,  but  this  was  not  allowed  to  make  any 
difference,  while  I  staggered  with  weakness  and 
sometimes  fell  headlong  among  the  sheaves. 
Only  once  was  I  allowed  to  leave  the  harvest- 
field  —  when  I  was  stricken  down  with  pneu- 
monia. I  lay  gasping  for  weeks,  but  the  Scotch 
are  hard  to  kill  and  I  pulled  through.  No 
physician  was  called,  for  father  was  an  enthu- 
siast, and  always  said  and  believed  that  God 
and  hard  work  were  by  far  the  best  doctors. 

None  of  our  neighbors  were  so  excessively 
industrious  as  father;  though  nearly  all  of  the 
Scotch,  English,  and  Irish  worked  too  hard, 
trying  to  make  good  homes  and  to  lay  up 
money  enough  for  comfortable  independence. 
Excepting  small  garden-patches,  few  of  them 
had  owned  land  in  the  old  country.  Here  their 
craving  land-hunger  was  satisfied,  and  they 
[  224  1 


The  Ploughboy 


were  naturally  proud  of  their  farms  and  tried 
to  keep  them  as  neat  and  clean  and  well-tilled 
as  gardens.  To  accomplish  this  without  the 
means  for  hiring  help  was  impossible.  Flowers 
were  planted  about  the  neatly  kept  log  or  frame 
houses;  barnyards,  granaries,  etc.,  were  kept 
in  about  as  neat  order  as  the  homes,  and  the 
fences  and  corn-rows  were  rigidly  straight.  But 
every  uncut  weed  distressed  them ;  so  also  did 
every  ungathered  ear  of  grain,  and  all  that  was 
lost  by  birds  and  gophers;  and  this  overcare- 
fulness  bred  endless  work  and  worry. 

As  for  money,  for  many  a  year  there  was 
precious  little  of  it  in  the  country  for  anybody. 
Eggs  sold  at  six  cents  a  dozen  in  trade,  and  five- 
cent  calico  was  exchanged  at  twenty-five  cents 
a  yard.  Wheat  brought  fifty  cents  a  bushel  in 
trade.  To  get  cash  for  it  before  the  Portage 
Railway  was  built,  it  had  to  be  hauled  to  Mil- 
waukee, a  hundred  miles  away.  On  the  other 
hand,  food  was  abundant,  —  eggs,  chickens, 
pigs,  cattle,  wheat,  corn,  potatoes,  garden 
vegetables  of  the  best,  and  wonderful  melons 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

as  luxuries.  No  other  wild  country  I  have  ever 
known  extended  a  kinder  welcome  to  poor 
immigrants.  On  the  arrival  in  the  spring,  a  log 
house  could  be  built,  a  few  acres  ploughed,  the 
virgin  sod  planted  with  corn,  potatoes,  etc., 
and  enough  raised  to  keep  a  family  comfort- 
ably the  very  first  year ;  and  wild  hay  for  cows 
and  oxen  grew  in  abundance  on  the  numerous 
meadows.  The  American  settlers  were  wisely 
content  with  smaller  fields  and  less  of  every- 
thing, kept  indoors  during  excessively  hot  or 
cold  weather,  rested  when  tired,  went  off  fish- 
ing and  hunting  at  the  most  favorable  times 
and  seasons  of  the  day  and  year,  gathered  nuts 
and  berries,  and  in  general  tranquilly  accepted 
all  the  good  things  the  fertile  wilderness  offered. 
After  eight  years  of  this  dreary  work  of 
clearing  the  Fountain  Lake  farm,  fencing  it  and 
getting  it  in  perfect  order,  building  a  frame 
house  and  the  necessary  outbuildings  for  the 
cattle  and  horses,  —  after  all  this  had  been 
victoriously  accomplished,  and  we  had  made 
out  to  escape  with  life,  —  father  bought  a  half- 
[  226  ] 


T*he  Ploughboy 


section  of  wild  land  about  four  or  five  miles  to 
the  eastward  and  began  all  over  again  to  clear 
and  fence  and  break  up  other  fields  for  a  new 
farm,  doubling  all  the  stunting,  heartbreak- 
ing chopping,  grubbing,  stump-digging,  rail- 
splitting,  fence-building,  barn-building,  house- 
building, and  so  forth. 

By  this  time  I  had  learned  to  run  the  break- 
ing plough.  Most  of  these  ploughs  were  very 
large,  turning  furrows  from  eighteen  inches  to 
two  feet  wide,  and  were  drawn  by  four  or  five 
yoke  of  oxen.  They  were  used  only  for  the  first 
ploughing,  in  breaking  up  the  wild  sod  woven 
into  a  tough  mass,  chiefly  by  the  cordlike  roots 
of  perennial  grasses,  reinforced  by  the  tap- 
roots of  oak  and  hickory  bushes,  called  "grubs," 
some  of  which  were  more  than  a  century  old 
and  four  or  five  inches  in  diameter.  In  the 
hardest  ploughing  on  the  most  difficult  ground, 
the  grubs  were  said  to  be  as  thick  as  the  hair  on 
a  dog's  back.  If  in  good  trim,  the  plough  cut 
through  and  turned  over  these  grubs  as  if  the 
century-old  wood  were  soft  like  the  flesh  of 
[  227  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

carrots  and  turnips;  but  if  not  in  good  trim  the 
grubs  promptly  tossed  the  plough  out  of  the 
ground.  A  stout  Highland  Scot,  our  neighbor, 
whose  plough  was  in  bad  order  and  who  did 
not  know  how  to  trim  it,  was  vainly  trying  to 
keep  it  in  the  ground  by  main  strength,  while 
his  son,  who  was  driving  and  merrily  whipping 
up  the  cattle,  would  cry  encouragingly,  "Haud 
her  in,  fayther!  Haud  her  in!" 

"But  hoo  i'  the  deil  can  I  haud  her  in  when 
she'll  no  stop  in?"  his  perspiring  father  would 
reply,  gasping  for  breath  between  each  word. 
On  the  contrary,  with  the  share  and  coulter 
sharp  and  nicely  adjusted,  the  plough,  instead 
of  shying  at  every  grub  and  jumping  out,  ran 
straight  ahead  without  need  of  steering  or  hold- 
ing, and  gripped  the  ground  so  firmly  that  it 
could  hardly  be  thrown  out  at  the  end  of  the 
furrow. 

Our  breaker  turned  a  furrow  two  feet  wide, 
and  on  our  best  land,  where  the  sod  was  tough- 
est, held  so  firm  a  grip  that  at  the  end  of  the 
field  my  brother,  who  was  driving  the  oxen, 
[  228  ] 


"The  Ploughboy 


had  to  come  to  my  assistance  in  throwing  it 
over  on  its  side  to  be  drawn  around  the  end  of 
the  landing;  and  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  set  it 
up  again.  But  I  learned  to  keep  that  plough 
in  such  trim  that  after  I  got  started  on  a  new 
furrow  I  used  to  ride  on  the  crossbar  between 
the  handles  with  my  feet  resting  comfortably 
on  the  beam,  without  having  to  steady  or  steer 
it  in  any  way  on  the  whole  length  of  the  field, 
unless  we  had  to  go  round  a  stump,  for  it  sawed 
through  the  biggest  grubs  without  flinching. 

The  growth  of  these  grubs  was  interesting  to 
me.  When  an  acorn  or  hickory-nut  had  sent 
up  its  first  season's  sprout,  a  few  inches  long, 
it  was  burned  off  in  the  autumn  grass  fires; 
but  the  root  continued  to  hold  on  to  life,  formed 
a  callus  over  the  wound  and  sent  up  one  or 
more  shoots  the  next  spring.  Next  autumn 
these  new  shoots  were  burned  off,  but  the  root 
and  calloused  head,  about  level  with  the  sur- 
face of  the  ground,  continued  to  grow  and  send 
up  more  new  shoots;  and  so  on,  almost  every 
year  until  very  old,  probably  far  more  than  a 
[  229  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

century,  while  the  tops,  which  would  naturally 
have  become  tall  broad-headed  trees,  were  only 
mere  sprouts  seldom  more  than  two  years  old. 
Thus  the  ground  was  kept  open  like  a  prairie, 
with  only  five  or  six  trees  to  the  acre,  which 
had  escaped  the  fire  by  having  the  good  fortune 
to  grow  on  a  bare  spot  at  the  door  of  a  fox  or 
badger  den,  or  between  straggling  grass-tufts 
wide  apart  on  the  poorest  sandy  soil. 

The  uniformly  rich  soil  of  the  Illinois  and 
Wisconsin  prairies  produced  so  close  and  tall  a 
growth  of  grasses  for  fires  that  no  tree  could 
live  on  it.  Had  there  been  no  fires,  these  fine 
prairies,  so  marked  a  feature  of  the  country, 
would  have  been  covered  by  the  heaviest  for- 
ests. As  soon  as  the  oak  openings  in  our  neigh- 
borhood were  settled,  and  the  farmers  had 
prevented  running  grass-fires,  the  grubs  grew 
up  into  trees  and  formed  tall  thickets  so 
dense  that  it  was  difficult  to  walk  through 
them  and  every  trace  of  the  sunny  "openings" 
vanished. 

We  called  our  second  farm  Hickory  Hill,  from 
[  230  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


its  many  fine  hickory  trees  and  the  long  gentle 
slope  leading  up  to  it.  Compared  with  Fountain 
Lake  farm  it  lay  high  and  dry.  The  land  was 
better,  but  it  had  no  living  water,  no  spring  or 
stream  or  meadow  or  lake.  A  well  ninety  feet 
deep  had  to  be  dug,  all  except  the  first  ten  feet 
or  so  in  fine-grained  sandstone.  When  the  sand- 
stone was  struck,  my  father,  on  the  advice  of  a 
man  who  had  worked  in  mines,  tried  to  blast 
the  rock;  but  from  lack  of  skill  the  blasting 
went  on  very  slowly,  and  father  decided  to  have 
me  do  all  the  work  with  mason's  chisels,  a  long, 
hard  job,with  a  good  deal  of  danger  in  it.  I  had 
to  sit  cramped  in  a  space  about  three  feet  in 
diameter,  and  wearily  chip,  chip,  with  heavy 
hammer  and  chisels  from  early  morning  until 
dark,  day  after  day,  for  weeks  and  months. 
In  the  morning,  father  and  David  lowered  me 
in  a  wooden  bucket  by  a  windlass,  hauled  up 
what  chips  were  left  from  the  night  before,  then 
went  away  to  the  farm  work  and  left  me  until 
noon,  when  they  hoisted  me  out  for  dinner. 
After  dinner  I  was  promptly  lowered  again,  the 
[  231  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

forenoon's  accumulation  of  chips  hoisted  out 
of  the  way,  and  I  was  left  until  night. 

One  morning,  after  the  dreary  bore  was 
about  eighty  feet  deep,  my  life  was  all  but  lost 
in  deadly  choke-damp,  —  carbonic  acid  gas 
that  had  settled  at  the  bottom  during  the  night. 
Instead  of  clearing  away  the  chips  as  usual  when 
I  was  lowered  to  the  bottom,  I  swayed  back 
and  forth  and  began  to  sink  under  the  poison. 
Father,  alarmed  that  I  did  not  make  any  noise, 
shouted,  "What's  keeping  you  so  still?"  to 
which  he  got  no  reply.  Just  as  I  was  settling 
down  against  the  side  of  the  wall,  I  happened 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  branch  of  a  bur-oak  tree 
which  leaned  out  over  the  mouth  of  the  shaft. 
This  suddenly  awakened  me,  and  to  father's 
excited  shouting  I  feebly  murmured,  "Take  me 
out."  But  when  he  began  to  hoist  he  found  I 
was  not  in  the  bucket  and  in  wild  alarm  shouted, 
"Get  in!  Get  in  the  bucket  and  hold  on!  Hold 
on!"  Somehow  I  managed  to  get  into  the 
bucket,  and  that  is  all  I  remembered  until  I 
was  dragged  out,  violently  gasping  for  breath. 
[  232  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


One  of  our  near  neighbors,  a  stone  mason 
and  miner  by  the  name  of  William  Duncan, 
came  to  see  me,  and  after  hearing  the  particu- 
lars of  the  accident  he  solemnly  said:  "Weel, 
Johnnie,  it's  God's  mercy  that  you're  alive. 
Many  a  companion  of  mine  have  I  seen  dead 
with  choke-damp,  but  none  that  I  ever  saw  or 
heard  of  was  so  near  to  death  in  it  as  you 
were  and  escaped  without  help."  Mr.  Duncan 
taught  father  to  throw  water  down  the  shaft 
to  absorb  the  gas,  and  also  to  drop  a  bundle  of 
brush  or  hay  attached  to  a  light  rope,  dropping 
it  again  and  again  to  carry  down  pure  air  and 
stir  up  the  poison.  When,  after  a  day  or  two, 
I  had  recovered  from  the  shock,  father  lowered 
me  again  to  my  work,  after  taking  the  precau- 
tion to  test  the  air  with  a  candle  and  stir  it  up 
well  with  a  brush-and-hay  bundle.  The  weary 
hammer-and-chisel-chipping  went  on  as  before, 
only  more  slowly,  until  ninety  feet  down,  when 
at  last  I  struck  a  fine,  hearty  gush  of  water. 
Constant  dropping  wears  away  stone.  So  does 
constant  chipping,  while  at  the  same  time  wear- 
[  233  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

ing  away  the  chipper.  Father  never  spent  an 
hour  in  that  well.  He  trusted  me  to  sink  it 
straight  and  plumb,  and  I  did,  and  built  a  fine 
covered  top  over  it,  and  swung  two  iron-bound 
buckets  in  it  from  which  we  all  drank  for  many 
a  day. 

The  honey-bee  arrived  in  America  long  before 
we  boys  did,  but  several  years  passed  ere  we 
noticed  any  on  our  farm.  The  introduction  of 
the  honey-bee  into  flowery  America  formed  a 
grand  epoch  in  bee  history.  This  sweet  hum- 
ming creature,  companion  and  friend  of  the 
flowers,  is  now  distributed  over  the  greater  part 
of  the  continent,  filling  countless  hollows  in 
rocks  and  trees  with  honey  as  well  as  the 
millions  of  hives  prepared  for  them  by  honey- 
farmers,  who  keep  and  tend  their  flocks  of 
sweet  winged  cattle,  as  shepherds  keep  sheep, 
—  a  charming  employment,  "like  directing 
sunbeams/'  as  Thoreau  says.  The  Indians  call 
the  honey-bee  the  white  man's  fly;  and  though 
they  had  long  been  acquainted  with  several 
species  of  bumblebees  that  yielded  more  or 
[  234  1 


"The  Ploughboy 


less  honey,  how  gladly  surprised  they  must 
have  been  when  they  discovered  that,  in  the 
hollow  trees  where  before  they  had  found  only 
coons  or  squirrels,  they  found  swarms  of  brown 
flies  with  fifty  or  even  a  hundred  pounds  of 
honey  sealed  up  in  beautiful  cells.  With  their 
keen  hunting  senses  they  of  course  were  not 
slow  to  learn  the  habits  of  the  little  brown 
immigrants  and  the  best  methods  of  tracing 
them  to  their  sweet  homes,  however  well  hid- 
den. During  the  first  few  years  none  were 
seen  on  our  farm,  though  we  sometimes  heard 
father's  hired  men  talking  about  "lining  bees." 
None  of  us  boys  ever  found  a  bee  tree,  or  tried 
to  find  any  until  about  ten  years  after  our 
arrival  in  the  woods.  On  the  Hickory  Hill 
farm  there  is  a  ridge  of  moraine  material,  rather 
dry,  but  flowery  with  goldenrods  and  asters  of 
many  species,  upon  which  we  saw  bees  feeding 
in  the  late  autumn  just  when  their  hives  were 
fullest  of  honey,  and  it  occurred  to  me  one 
day  after  I  was  of  age  and  my  own  master 
that  I  must  try  to  find  a  bee  tree.  I  made  a 
[  235  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

little  box  about  six  inches  long  and  four  inches 
deep  and  wide;  bought  half  a  pound  of  honey, 
went  to  the  goldenrod  hill,  swept  a  bee  into  the 
box  and  closed  it.  The  lid  had  a  pane  of  glass 
in  it  so  I  could  see  when  the  bee  had  sucked  its 
fill  and  was  ready  to  go  home.  At  first  it  groped 
around  trying  to  get  out,  but,  smelling  the 
honey,  it  seemed  to  forget  everything  else,  and 
while  it  was  feasting  I  carried  the  box  and  a 
small  sharp-pointed  stake  to  an  open  spot, 
where  I  could  see  about  me,  fixed  the  stake  in 
the  ground,  and  placed  the  box  on  the  flat  top 
of  it.  When  I  thought  that  the  little  feaster 
must  be  about  full,  I  opened  the  box,  but  it  was 
in  no  hurry  to  fly.  It  slowly  crawled  up  to  the 
edge  of  the  box,  lingered  a  minute  or  two  clean- 
ing its  legs  that  had  become  sticky  with  honey, 
and  when  it  took  wing,  instead  of  making  what 
is  called  a  bee-line  for  home,  it  buzzed  around 
the  box  and  minutely  examined  it  as  if  trying  to 
fix  a  clear  picture  of  it  in  its  mind  so  as  to  be 
able  to  recognize  it  when  it  returned  for  another 
load,  then  circled  around  at  a  little  distance  as 
[  236  ] 


The  Ploughboy 


if  looking  for  something  to  locate  it  by.  I  was 
the  nearest  object,  and  the  thoughtful  worker 
buzzed  in  front  of  my  face  and  took  a  good 
stare  at  me,  and  then  flew  up  on  to  the  top  of 
an  oak  on  the  side  of  the  open  spot  in  the  centre 
of  which  the  honey-box  was.  Keeping  a  keen 
watch,  after  a  minute  or  two  of  rest  or  wing- 
cleaning,  I  saw  it  fly  in  wide  circles  round  the 
tops  of  the  trees  nearest  the  honey-box,  and, 
after  apparently  satisfying  itself,  make  a  bee- 
line  for  the  hive.  Looking  endwise  on  the  line 
of  flight,  I  saw  that  what  is  called  a  bee-line 
is  not  an  absolutely  straight  line,  but  a  line  in 
general  straight  made  of  many  slight,  wavering, 
lateral  curves.  After  taking  as  true  a  bearing 
as  I  could,  I  waited  and  watched.  In  a  few 
minutes,  probably  ten,  I  was  surprised  to  see 
that  bee  arrive  at  the  end  of  the  outleaning 
limb  of  the  oak  mentioned  above,  as  though 
that  was  the  first  point  it  had  fixed  in  its  mem- 
ory to  be  depended  on  in  retracing  the  way  back 
to  the  honey-box.  From  the  tree-top  it  came 
straight  to  my  head,  thence  straight  to  the  box, 
[  237  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

entered  without  the  least  hesitation,  filled  up 
and  started  off  after  the  same  preparatory 
dressing  and  taking  of  bearings  as  before.  Then 
I  took  particular  pains  to  lay  down  the  exact 
course  so  I  would  be  able  to  trace  it  to  the  hive. 
Before  doing  so,  however,  I  made  an  experi- 
ment to  test  the  worth  of  the  impression  I  had 
that  the  little  insect  found  the  way  back  to  the 
box  by  fixing  telling  points  in  its  mind.  While 
it  was  away,  I  picked  up  the  honey-box  and 
set  it  on  the  stake  a  few  rods  from  the  position 
it  had  thus  far  occupied,  and  stood  there  watch- 
ing. In  a  few  minutes  I  saw  the  bee  arrive  at 
its  guide-mark,  the  overleaning  branch  on  the 
tree-top,  and  thence  came  bouncing  down  right 
to  the  spaces  in  the  air  which  had  been  occu- 
pied by  my  head  and  the  honey-box,  and  when 
the  cunning  little  honey-gleaner  found  nothing 
there  but  empty  air  it  whirled  round  and  round 
as  if  confused  and  lost;  and  although  I  was 
standing  with  the  open  honey-box  within  fifty 
or  sixty  feet  of  the  former  feasting-spot,  it 
could  not,  or  at  least  did  not,  find  it. 
[  238  ] 


"The  Ploughboy 


Now  that  I  had  learned  the  general  direction 
of  the  hive,  I  pushed  on  in  search  of  it.  I  had 
gone  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  when  I  caught 
another  bee,  which,  after  getting  loaded,  went 
through  the  same  performance  of  circling  round 
and  round  the  honey-box,  buzzing  in  front  of 
me  and  staring  me  in  the  face  to  be  able  to 
recognize  me;  but  as  if  the  adjacent  trees  and 
bushes  were  sufficiently  well  known,  it  simply 
looked  around  at  them  and  bolted  off  without 
much  dressing,  indicating,  I  thought,  that  the 
distance  to  the  hive  was  not  great.  I  followed 
on  and  very  soon  discovered  it  in  the  bottom 
log  of  a  corn-field  fence,  but  some  lucky  fellow 
had  discovered  it  before  me  and  robbed  it. 
The  robbers  had  chopped  a  large  hole  in  the 
log,  taken  out  most  of  the  honey,  and  left  the 
poor  bees  late  in  the  fall,  when  winter  was 
approaching,  to  make  haste  to  gather  all  the 
honey  they  could  from  the  latest  flowers  to 
avoid  starvation  in  the  winter. 


VII 

KNOWLEDGE  AND  INVENTIONS 

Hungry  for  Knowledge  —  Borrowing  Books  —  Paternal 
Opposition  —  Snatched  Moments  —  Early  Rising  proves  a 
Way  out  of  Difficulties  —  The  Cellar  Workshop  —  Inven- 
tions —  An  Early-Rising  Machine  —  Novel  Clocks  —  Hy- 
grometers, etc.  —  A  Neighbor's  Advice. 

I  LEARNED  arithmetic  in  Scotland  with- 
out understanding  any  of  it,  though  I  had 
the  rules  by  heart.  But  when  I  was  about 
fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age,  I  began  to  grow 
hungry  for  real  knowledge,  and  persuaded 
father,  who  was  willing  enough  to  have  me 
study  provided  my  farm  work  was  kept  up, 
to  buy  me  a  higher  arithmetic.  Beginning  at 
the  beginning,  in  one  summer  I  easily  finished 
it  without  assistance,  in  the  short  intervals 
between  the  end  of  dinner  and  the  afternoon 
start  for  the  harvest-  and  hay-fields,  accom- 
plishing more  without  a  teacher  in  a  few  scraps 
of  time  than  in  years  in  school  before  my  mind 
was  ready  for  such  work.  Then  in  succession  I 
[  240  ] 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

took  up  algebra,  geometry,  and  trigonometry 
and  made  some  little  progress  in  each,  and  re- 
viewed grammar.  I  was  fond  of  reading,  but 
father  had  brought  only  a  few  religious  books 
from  Scotland.  Fortunately,  several  of  our 
neighbors  had  brought  a  dozen  or  two  of  all 
sorts  of  books,  which  I  borrowed  and  read, 
keeping  all  of  them  except  the  religious  ones 
carefully  hidden  from  father's  eye.  Among 
these  were  Scott's  novels,  which,  like  all  other 
novels,  were  strictly  forbidden,  but  devoured 
with  glorious  pleasure  in  secret.  Father  was 
easily  persuaded  to  buy  Josephus'  "Wars  of 
the  Jews,"  and  D'Aubigne's  "History  of  the 
Reformation,"  and  I  tried  hard  to  get  him  to 
buy  Plutarch's  Lives,  which,  as  I  told  him, 
everybody,  even  religious  people,  praised  as  a 
grand  good  book ;  but  he  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  old  pagan  until  the  graham 
bread  and'  anti-flesh  doctrines  came  suddenly 
into  our  backwoods  neighborhood,  making  a 
stir  something  like  phrenology  and  spirit- 
rappings,  which  were  as  mysterious  in  their 
[  241  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

attacks  as  influenza.  He  then  thought  it  possi- 
ble that  Plutarch  might  be  turned  to  account 
on  the  food  question  by  revealing  what  those 
old  Greeks  and  Romans  ate  to  make  them 
strong;  and  so  at  last  we  gained  our  glori- 
ous Plutarch.  Dick's  "Christian  Philosopher/' 
which  I  borrowed  from  a  neighbor,  I  thought 
I  might  venture  to  read  in  the  open,  trusting 
that  the  word  "Christian"  would  be  proof 
against  its  cautious  condemnation.  But  father 
balked  at  the  word  "Philosopher,"  and  quoted 
from  the  Bible  a  verse  which  spoke  of  "phil- 
osophy falsely  so-called."  I  then  ventured  to 
speak  in  defense  of  the  book,  arguing  that  we 
could  not  do  without  at  least  a  little  of  the  most 
useful  kinds  of  philosophy. 

"Yes,  we  can,"  he  said  with  enthusiasm, 
"the  Bible  is  the  only  book  human  beings  can 
possibly  require  throughout  all  the  journey 
from  earth  to  heaven." 

"But  how,"  I  contended,  "can  we  find  the 
way  to  heaven  without  the  Bible,  and  how 
after  we  grow  old  can  we  read  the  Bible  with- 
[  242  ] 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

out  a  little  helpful  science  ?  Just  think,  father, 
you  cannot  read  your  Bible  without  spec- 
tacles, and  millions  of  others  are  in  the  same 
fix;  and  spectacles  cannot  be  made  without 
some  knowledge  of  the  science  of  optics." 

"Oh!"  he  replied,  perceiving  the  drift  of  the 
argument,  "there  will  always  be  plenty  of 
worldly  people  to  make  spectacles." 

To  this  I  stubbornly  replied  with  a  quotation 
from  the  Bible  with  reference  to  the  time  com- 
ing when  "all  shall  know  the  Lord  from  the 
least  even  to  the  greatest,"  and  then  who  will 
make  the  spectacles?  But  he  still  objected  to 
my  reading  that  book,  called  me  a  contuma- 
cious quibbler  too  fond  of  disputation,  and 
ordered  me  to  return  it  to  the  accommodating 
owner.  I  managed,  however,  to  read  it  later. 

On  the  food  question  father  insisted  that 
those  who  argued  for  a  vegetable  diet  were  in 
the  right,  because  our  teeth  showed  plainly 
that  they  were  made  with  reference  to  fruit 
and  grain  and  not  for  flesh  like  those  of  dogs 
and  wolves  and  tigers.  He  therefore  promptly 
[  243  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

adopted  a  vegetable  diet  and  requested  mother 
to  make  the  bread  from  graham  flour  instead  of 
bolted  flour.  Mother  put  both  kinds  on  the 
table,  and  meat  also,  to  let  all  the  family  take 
their  choice,  and  while  father  was  insisting  on 
the  foolishness  of  eating  flesh,  I  came  to  her 
help  by  calling  father's  attention  to  the  passage 
in  the  Bible  which  told  the  story  of  Elijah  the 
prophet  who,  when  he  was  pursued  by  enemies 
who  wanted  to  take  his  life,  was  hidden  by  the 
Lord  by  the  brook  Cherith,  and  fed  by  ravens; 
and  surely  the  Lord  knew  what  was  good  to 
eat,  whether  bread  or  meat.  And  on  what,  I 
asked,  did  the  Lord  feed  Elijah  ?  On  vegetables 
or  graham  bread?  No,  he  directed  the  ravens 
to  feed  his  prophet  on  flesh.  The  Bible  being 
the  sole  rule,  father  at  once  acknowledged  that 
he  was  mistaken.  The  Lord  never  would  have 
sent  flesh  to  Elijah  by  the  ravens  if  graham 
bread  were  better. 

I  remember  as  a  great  and  sudden  discovery 
that  the  poetry  of  the  Bible,  Shakespeare,  and 
Milton  was  a  source  of  inspiring,  exhilarating, 
[  244  ] 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

uplifting  pleasure;  and  I  became  anxious  to 
know  all  the  poets,  and  saved  up  small  sums  to 
buy  as  many  of  their  books  as  possible.  Within 
three  or  four  years  I  was  the  proud  possessor 
of  parts  of  Shakespeare's,  Milton's,  Cowper's, 
Henry  Kirke  White's,  Campbell's,  and  Aken- 
side's  works,  and  quite  a  number  of  others  sel- 
dom read  nowadays.  I  think  it  was  in  my 
fifteenth  year  that  I  began  to  relish  good  liter- 
ature with  enthusiasm,  and  smack  my  lips  over 
favorite  lines,  but  there  was  desperately  little 
time  for  reading,  even  in  the  winter  evenings, 
-only  a  few  stolen  minutes  now  and  then. 
Father's  strict  rule  was,  straight  to  bed  imme- 
diately after  family  worship,  which  in  winter 
was  usually  over  by  eight  o'clock.  I  was  in  the 
habit  of  lingering  in  the  kitchen  with  a  book 
and  candle  after  the  rest  of  the  family  had 
retired,  and  considered  myself  fortunate  if  I 
got  five  minutes'  reading  before  father  noticed 
the  light  and  ordered  me  to  bed ;  an  order  that 
of  course  I  immediately  obeyed.  But  night 
after  night  I  tried  to  steal  minutes  in  the  same 
I  245  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

lingering  way,  and  how  keenly  precious  those 
minutes  were,  few  nowadays  can  know.  Father 
failed  perhaps  two  or  three  times  in  a  whole 
winter  to  notice  my  light  for  nearly  ten  min- 
utes, magnificent  golden  blocks  of  time,  long 
to  be  remembered  like  holidays  or  geological 
periods.  One  evening  when  I  was  reading 
Church  history  father  was  particularly  irritable, 
apd  called  out  with  hope-killing  emphasis, 
y  John,)  go  to  bed!  Must  I  give  you  a  separate 
order  every  night  to  get  you  to  go  to  bed  ?  Now, 
I  will  have  no  irregularity  in  the  family;  you 
must  go  when  the  rest  go,  and  without  my 
having  to  tell  you."  Then,  as  an  afterthought, 
as  if  judging  that  his  words  and  tone  of  voice 
were  too  severe  for  so  pardonable  an  offense 
as  reading  a  religious  book  he  unwarily  added : 
"If  you  will  read,  get  up  in  the  morning  and 
read.  You  may  get  up  in  the  morning  as  early 
as  you  like." 

That  night  I  went  to  bed  wishing  with  all 
my  heart  and  soul  that  somebody  or  something 
might  call  me  out  of  sleep  to  avail  myself  of 
[  246  ] 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

this  wonderful  indulgence;  and  next  morning 
to  my  joyful  surprise  I  awoke  before  father 
called  me.  A  boy  sleeps  soundly  after  working 
all  day  in  the  snowy  woods,  but  that  frosty 
morning  I  sprang  out  of  bed  as  if  called  by  a 
trumpet  blast,  rushed  downstairs,  scarce  feel- 
ing my  chilblains,  enormously  eager  to  see  how 
much  time  I  had  won ;  and  when  I  held  up  my 
candle  to  a  little  clock  that  stood  on  a  bracket 
in  the  kitchen  I  found  that  it  was  only  one 
o'clock.  I  had  gained  five  hours,  almost  half 
a  day!  "Five  hours  to  myself!"  I  said,  "five 
huge,  solid  hours!"  I  can  hardly  think  of  any 
other  event  in  my  life,  any  discovery  I  ever 
made  that  gave  birth  to  joy  so  transportingly 
glorious  as  the  possession  of  these  five  frosty 
hours. 

In  the  glad,  tumultuous  excitement  of  so 
much  suddenly  acquired  time-wealth,  I  hardly 
knew  what  to  do  with  it.  I  first  thought  of 
going  on  with  my  reading,  but  the  zero  weather 
would  make  a  fire  necessary,  and  it  occurred  to 
me  that  father  might  object  to  the  cost  of  fire- 
[  247  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

wood  that  took  time  to  chop.  Therefore,  I 
prudently  decided  to  go  down  cellar,  and  begin 
work  on  a  model  of  a  self-setting  sawmill  I 
had  invented.  Next  morning  I  managed  to  get 
up  at  the  same  gloriously  early  hour,  and 
though  the  temperature  of  the  cellar  was  a 
little  below  the  freezing  point,  and  my  light 
was  only  a  tallow  candle  the  mill  work  went 
joyfully  on.  There  were  a  few  tools  in  a  corner 
of  the  cellar, —  a  vise,  files,  a  hammer,  chisels, 
etc.,  that  father  had  brought  from  Scotland, 
but  no  saw  excepting  a  coarse  crooked  one 
that  was  unfit  for  sawing  dry  hickory  or  oak. 
/  So  I  made  a  fine-tooth  saw  suitable  for  my 
/  work  out  of  a  strip  of  steel  that  had  formed 
part  of  an  old-fashioned  corset,  that  cut  the 
hardest  wood  smoothly.  I  also  made  my  own 
bradawls,  punches,  and  a  pair  of  compasses,  out 
of  wire  and  old  files. 

My  workshop  was  immediately  under  fa- 
ther's bed,  and  the  filing  and  tapping  in  making 
cogwheels,  journals,  cams,  etc.,  must,  no  doubt, 
have  annoyed  him,  but  with  the  permission  he 
[  248  ] 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

had  granted  in  his  mind,  and  doubtless  hoping 
that  I  would  soon  tire  of  getting  up  at  one 
o'clock,  he  impatiently  waited  about  two  weeks 
before  saying  a  word.  I  did  not  vary  more  than 
five  minutes  from  one  o'clock  all  winter,  nor 
did  I  feel  any  bad  effects  whatever,  nor  did  I 
think  at  all  about  the  subject  as  to  whether  so 
little  sleep  might  be  in  any  way  injurious;  it 
was  a  grand  triumph  of  will-power  over  cold 
and  common  comfort  and  work-weariness  in 
abruptly  cutting  down  my  ten  hours'  allow- 
ance of  sleep  to  five.  I  simply  felt  that  I  was 
rich  beyond  anything  I  could  have  dreamed  of 
or  hoped  for.  I  was  far  more  than  happy.  Like 
Tarn  o'  Shanter  I  was  glorious,  "  O'er  a'  the  ills 
o'  life  victorious." 

Father,  as  was  customary  in  Scotland,  gave 
thanks  and  asked  a  blessing  before  meals,  not 
merely  as  a  matter  of  form  and  decent  Christian 
manners,  for  he  regarded  food  as  a  gift  derived 
directly  from  the  hands  of  the  Father  in  heaven. 
Therefore  every  meal  to  him  was  a  sacrament 
requiring  conduct  and  attitude  of  mind  not 
[  249  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

unlike  that  befitting  the  Lord's  Supper.  No 
idle  word  was  allowed  to  be  spoken  at  our  table, 
much  less  any  laughing  or  fun  or  story-telling.) 
When  we  were  at  the  breakfast-table,  about 
two  weeks  after  the  great  golden  time-discovery, 
father  cleared  his  throat  preliminary,  as  we 
all  knew,  to  saying  something  considered  im- 
portant. I  feared  that  it  was  to  be  on  the  sub- 
ject of  my  early  rising,  and  dreaded  the  with- 
drawal of  the  permission  he  had  granted  on 
account  of  the  noise  I  made,  but  still  hoping 
that,  as  he  had  given  his  word  that  I  might  get 
up  as  early  as  I  wished,  he  would  as  a  Scotch- 
man stand  to  it,  even  though  it  was  given  in  an 
unguarded  moment  and  taken  in  a  sense  un- 
reasonably far-reaching.  The  solemn  sacra- 
mental silence  was  broken  by  the  dreaded 
question :  — 

"John,  what  time  is  it  when  you  get  up  in 
the  morning?" 

"About  one  o'clock,"  I  replied  in  a  low, 
meek,  guilty  tone  of  voice. 

"And  what  kind  of  a  time  is  that,  getting  up 
[  250  ] 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  disturbing  the 
whole  family?" 

I  simply  reminded  him  of  the  permission  he 
had  freely  granted  me  to  get  up  as  early  as  I 
wished. 

"I  know  it,"  he  said,  in  an  almost  agonized 
tone  of  voice,  "I  know  I  gave  you  that  miser- 
able permission,  but  I  never  imagined  that  you 
would  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

To  this  I  cautiously  made  no  reply,  but  con- 
tinued to  listen  for  the  heavenly  one-o'clock 
call,  and  it  never  failed. 

After  completing  my  self-setting  sawmill  I 
dammed  one  of  the  streams  in  the  meadow  and 
put  the  mill  in  operation.  This  invention  was 
speedily  followed  by  a  lot  of  others,  —  water- 
wheels,  curious  doorlocks  and  latches,  thermo- 
meters, hygrometers,  pyrometers,  clocks,  a 
barometer,  an  automatic  contrivance  for  feed- 
ing the  horses  at  any  required  hour,  a  lamp- 
lighter and  fire-lighter,  an  early-or-late-rising  • 
machine,  and  so  forth. 

After  the  sawmill  was  proved  and  discharged 
[  251  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

from  my  mind,  I  happened  to  think  it  would 
be  a  fine  thing  to  make  a  timekeeper  which 
would  tell  the  day  of  the  week  and  the  day  of 
the  month,  as  well  as  strike  like  a  common 
clock  and  point  out  the  hours;  also  to  have  an 
attachment  whereby  it  could  be  connected 
with  a  bedstead  to  set  me  on  my  feet  at  any 
hour  in  the  morning;  also  to  start  fires,  light 
lamps,  etc.  I  had  learned  the  time  laws  of  the 
pendulum  from  a  book,  but  with  this  exception 
I  knew  nothing  of  timekeepers,  for  I  had  never 
seen  the  inside  of  any  sort  of  clock  or  watch. 
After  long  brooding,  the  novel  clock  was  at 
length  completed  in  my  mind,  and  was  tried 
and  found  to  be  durable  and  to  work  well  and 
look  well  before  I  had  begun  to  build  it  in  wood. 
I  carried  small  parts  of  it  in  my  pocket  to  whit- 
tle at  when  I  was  out  at  work  on  the  farm, 
using  every  spare  or  stolen  moment  within 
reach  without  father's  knowing  anything  about 
it.  In  the  middle  of  summer,  when  harvesting 
was  in  progress,  the  novel  time-machine  was 
nearly  completed.  It  was  hidden  upstairs  in  a 
[  252  ] 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

spare  bedroom  where  some  tools  were  kept.  I 
did  the  making  and  mending  on  the  farm,  but 
one  day  at  noon,  when  I  happened  to  be  away, 
father  went  upstairs  for  a  hammer  or  something 
and  discovered  the  mysterious  machine  back 
of  the  bedstead.  My  sister  Margaret  saw  him 
on  his  knees  examining  it,  and  at  the  first 
opportunity  whispered  in  my  ear,  "John, 
fayther  saw  that  thing  you  're  making  upstairs." 
None  of  the  family  knew  what  I  was  doing,  but 
they  knew  very  well  that  all  such  work  was 
frowned  on  by  father,  and  kindly  warned  me 
of  any  danger  that  threatened  my  plans.  The 
fine  invention  seemed  doomed  to  destruction 
before  its  time-ticking  commenced,  though  I 
thought  it  handsome,  had  so  long  carried  it  in 
my  mind,  and  like  the  nest  of  Burns's  wee 
mousie  it  had  cost  me  mony  a  weary  whittling 
nibble.  When  we  were  at  dinner  several  days 
after  the  sad  discovery,  father  began  to  clear 
his  throat  to  speak,  and  I  feared  the  doom  of 
martyrdom  was  about  to  be  pronounced  on  my 
grand  clock. 

[  253  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

"John,"  he  inquired,  "what  is  that  thing 
you  are  making  upstairs?" 

I  replied  in  desperation  that  I  did  n't  know 
what  to  call  it. 

"What!  You  mean  to  say  you  don't  know 
what  you  are  trying  to  do?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  "I  know  very  well  what 
I  am  doing." 

"What,  then,  is  the  thing  for?" 

"It's  for  a  lot  of  things,"  I  replied,  "but  get- 
ting people  up  early  in  the  morning  is  one  of  the 
main  things  it  is  intended  for ;  therefore  it  might 
perhaps  be  called  an  early-rising  machine." 

After  getting  up  so  extravagantly  early,  all 
the  last  memorable  winter  to  make  a  machine 
for  getting  up  perhaps  still  earlier  seemed  so 
ridiculous  that  he  very  nearly  laughed.  But 
after  controlling  himself  and  getting  command 
of  a  sufficiently  solemn  face  and  voice  he  said 
severely,  "Do  you  not  think  it  is  very  wrong  to 
waste  your  time  on  such  nonsense?" 

"No,"  I  said  meekly,  "I  don't  think  I'm 
doing  any  wrong." 

[  254  I 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  assure  you  I  do;  and 
if  you  were  only  half  as  zealous  in  the  study  of 
religion  as  you  are  in  contriving  and  whittling 
these  useless,  nonsensical  things,  it  would  be 
infinitely  better  for  you.  I  want  you  to  be  like 
Paul,  who  said  that  he  desired  to  know  nothing 
among  men  but  Christ  and  Him  crucified." 

To  this  I  made  no  reply,  gloomily  believing 
my  fine  machine  was  to  be  burned,  but  still 
taking  what  comfort  I  could  in  realizing  that 
anyhow  I  had  enjoyed  inventing  and  mak- 
ing it. 

After  a  few  days,  finding  that  nothing  more 
was  to  be  said,  and  that  father  after  all  had  not 
had  the  heart  to  destroy  it,  all  necessity  for 
secrecy  being  ended,  I  finished  it  in  the  half- 
hours  that  we  had  at  noon  and  set  it  in  the 
parlor  between  two  chairs,  hung  moraine 
boulders  that  had  come  from  the  direction  of 
Lake  Superior  on  it  for  weights,  and  set  it 
running.  We  were  then  hauling  grain  into  the 
barn.  Father  at  this  period  devoted  himself 
entirely  to  the  Bible  and  did  no  farm  work 
I  255  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

whatever.  The  clock  had  a  good  loud  tick,  and 
when  he  heard  it  strike,  one  of  my  sisters  told 
me  that  he  left  his  study,  went  to  the  parlor, 
got  down  on  his  knees  and  carefully  examined 
the  machinery,  which  was  all  in  plain  sight,  not 
being  enclosed  in  a  case.  This  he  did  repeat- 
edly, and  evidently  seemed  a  little  proud  of 
my  ability  to  invent  and  whittle  such  a  thing, 
though  careful  to  give  no  encouragement  for 
anything  more  of  the  kind  in  future. 

But  somehow  it  seemed  impossible  to  stop. 
Inventing  and  whittling  faster  than  ever,  I 
made  another  hickory  clock,  shaped  like  a 
scythe  to  symbolize  the  scythe  of  Father  Time. 
The  pendulum  is  a  bunch  of  arrows  symbolizing 
the  flight  of  time.  It  hangs  on  a  leafless  mossy 
oak  snag  showing  the  effect  of  time,  and  on  the 
snath  is  written,  "All  flesh  is  grass."  This, 
especially  the  inscription,  rather  pleased  father, 
and,  of  course,  mother  and  all  my  sisters  and 
brothers  admired  it.  Like  the  first  it  indicates 
the  days  of  the  week  and  month,  starts  fires 
and  beds  at  any  given  hour  and  minute,  and, 
[  256  ] 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

though  made  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  is  still 
a  good  timekeeper. 

My  mind  still  running  on  clocks,  I  invented 
a  big  one  like  a  town  clock  with  four  dials,  with 
the  time-figures  so  large  they  could  be  read  by 
all  our  immediate  neighbors  as  well  as  ourselves 
when  at  work  in  the  fields,  and  on  the  side  next 
the  house  the  days  of  the  week  and  month  were 
indicated.  It  was  to  be  placed  on  the  peak  of 
the  barn  roof.  But  just  as  it  was  all  but  fin- 
ished, father  stopped  me,  saying  that  it  would 
bring  too  many  people  around  the  barn.  I  then 
asked  permission  to  put  it  on  the  top  of  a 
black-oak  tree  near  the  house.  Studying  the 
larger  main  branches,  I  thought  I  could  secure 
a  sufficiently  rigid  foundation  for  it,  while  the 
trimmed  sprays  and  leaves  would  conceal  the 
angles  of  the  cabin  required  to  shelter  the  works 
from  the  weather,  and  the  two-second  pendu- 
lum, fourteen  feet  long,  could  be  snugly  encased 
on  the  side  of  the  trunk.  Nothing  about  the 
grand,  useful  timekeeper,  I  argued,  would  dis- 
figure the  tree,  for  it  would  look  something  like 
[  257  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

a  big  hawk's  nest.  "But  that,"  he  objected, 
"would  draw  still  bigger  bothersome  trampling 
crowds  about  the  place,  for  who  ever  heard  of 
anything  so  queer  as  a  big  clock  on  the  top  of  a 
tree?"  So  I  had  to  lay  aside  its  big  wheels  and 
cams  and  rest  content  with  the  pleasure  of  in- 
venting it,  and  looking  at  it  in  my  mind  and 
listening  to  the  deep  solemn  throbbing  of  its 
long  two-second  pendulum  with  its  two  old 
axes  back  to  back  for  the  bob. 

One  of  my  inventions  was  a  large  thermome- 
ter made  of  an  iron  rod,  about  three  feet  long 
and  five  eighths  of  an  inch  in  diameter,  that 
had  formed  part  of  a  wagon-box.  The  expan- 
sion and  contraction  of  this  rod  was  multiplied 
by  a  series  of  levers  made  of  strips  of  hoop  iron. 
The  pressure  of  the  rod  against  the  levers  was 
kept  constant  by  a  small  counterweight,  so 
that  the  slightest  change  in  the  length  of  the 
rod  was  instantly  shown  on  a  dial  about  three 
feet  wide  multiplied  about  thirty-two  thousand 
times.  The  zero-point  was  gained  by  packing 
the  rod  in  wet  snow.  The  scale  was  so  large 
[  258  ] 


THERMOMETER 


SELF-SETTING    SAWMILL 

Model  built  in  cellar 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

that  the  big  black  hand  on  the  white-painted 
dial  could  be  seen  distinctly  and  the  tempera- 
ture read  while  we  were  ploughing  in  the  field 
below  the  house.  The  extremes  of  heat  and  cold 
caused  the  hand  to  make  several  revolutions. 
The  number  of  these  revolutions  was  indicated 
on  a  small  dial  marked  on  the  larger  one.  This 
thermometer  was  fastened  on  the  side  of  the 
house,  and  was  so  sensitive  that  when  any  one 
approached  it  within  four  or  five  feet  the  heat 
radiated  from  the  observer's  body  caused  the 
hand  of  the  dial  to  move  so  fast  that  the  motion 
was  plainly  visible,  and  when  he  stepped  back, 
the  hand  moved  slowly  back  to  its  normal  posi- 
tion. It  was  regarded  as  a  great  wonder  by 
the  neighbors  and  even  by  my  own  all-Bible 
father. 

Boys  are  fond  of  the  books  of  travelers,  and 
I  remember  that  one  day,  after  I  had  been 
reading  Mungo  Park's  travels  in  Africa,  mother" 
said:  "Weel,  John,  maybe  you  will  travel  like 
Park  and  Humboldt  some  day."  Father  over- 
heard her  and  cried  out  in  solemn  deprecation, 
I  259  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

"Oh,  Anne !  dinna  put  sic  notions  in  the  laddie's 

heed."    But  at  this  time  there  was  precious 

/~ 

little  need  of  such  prayers.  My  brothers  left 
the  farm  when  they  came  of  age,  but  I  stayed 
a  year  longer,  loath  to  leave  home.  Mother 
hoped  I  might  be  a  minister  some  day;  my  sis- 
ters that  I  would  be  a  great  inventor.  I  often 
thought  I  should  like  to  be  a  physician,  but  I 
saw  no  way  of  making  money  and  getting  the 
necessary  education,  excepting  as  an  inventor. 
So,  as  a  beginning,  I  decided  to  try  to  get  into 
a  big  shop  or  factory  and  live  a  while  among 
machines.  But  I  was  naturally  extremely  shy 
and  had  been  taught  to  have  a  poor  opinion  of 
myself,  as  of  no  account,  though  all  our  neigh- 
bors encouragingly  called  me  a  genius,  sure  to 
rise  in  the  world.  When  I  was  talking  over 
plans  one  day  with  a  friendly  neighbor,  he  said: 
"Now,  John,  if  you  wish  to  get  into  a  machine- 
shop,  just  take  some  of  your  inventions  to  the 
State  Fair,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  as  soon 
as  they  are  seen  they  will  open  the  door  of  any 
shop  in  the  country  for  you.  You  will  be  wel- 
[  260  ] 


Knowledge  and  Inventions 

corned  everywhere."  And  when  I  doubtingly 
asked  if  people  would  care  to  look  at  things 
made  of  wood,  he  said,  "Made  of  wood!  Made 
of  wood!  What  does  it  matter  what  they're 
made  of  when  they  are  so  out-and-out  original. 
There's  nothing  else  like  them  in  the  world. 
That  is  what  will  attract  attention,  and  besides 
they're  mighty  handsome  things  anyway  to 
come  from  the  backwoods."  So  I  was  encour- 
aged to  leave  home  and  go  at  his  direction  to 
the  State  Fair  when  it  was  being  held  in 
Madison. 


VIII 

THE  WORLD  AND  THE   UNIVERSITY 

Leaving  Home — Creating  a  Sensation  in  Pardeeville  —  A 
Ride  on  a  Locomotive  —  At  the  State  Fair  in  Madison  — 
Employment  in  a  Machine-Shop  at  Prairie  du  Chien  — 
Back  to  Madison  —  Entering  the  University  —  Teaching 
School  —  First  Lesson  in  Botany  —  More  Inventions  — 
The  University  of  the  Wilderness. 

WHEN  I  told  father  that  I  was  about 
to  leave  home,  and  inquired  whe- 
ther, if  I  should  happen  to  be  in 
need  of  money,  he  would  send  me  a  little,  he 
said,  "No;  depend  entirely  on  yourself."  Good 
advice,  I  suppose,  but  surely  needlessly  severe 
for  a  bashful,  home-loving  boy  who  had  worked 
so  hard.    I  had  the  gold  sovereign  that  my 
grandfather  had  given  me  when  I  left  Scotland, 
and  a  few  dollars,  perhaps  ten,  that  I  had  made 
by  raising  a  few  bushels  of  grain  on  a  little 
patch  of  sandy  abandoned  ground.  So  when  I 
left  home  to  try  the  world  I  had  only  about 
fifteen  dollars  in  my  pocket. 
[  262  ] 


The  World  and  the  University 

•  Strange  to  say,  father  carefully  taught  us  to 
consider  ourselves  very  poor  worms  of  the  dust, 
conceived  in  sin,  etc.,  and  devoutly  believed 
that  quenching  every  spark  of  pride  and  self- 
confidence  was  a  sacred  duty,  without  realizing 
that  in  so  doing  he  might  at  the  same  time  be 
quenching  everything  else.  Praise  he  consid- 
ered most  venomous,  and  tried  to  assure  me 
that  when  I  was  fairly  out  in  the  wicked  world 
making  my  own  way  I  would  soon  learn  that 
although  I  might  have  thought  him  a  hard 
taskmaster  at  times,  strangers  were  far  harder. 
On  the  contrary,  I  found  no  lack  of  kindness 
and  sympathy.  All  the  baggage  I  carried  was  a 
package  made  up  of  the  two  clocks  and  a  small 
thermometer  made  of  a  piece  of  old  washboard, 
all  three  tied  together,  with  no  covering  or 
case  of  any  sort,  the  whole  looking  like  one 
very  complicated  machine. 

The  aching  parting  from  mother  and  my 

sisters  was,  of  course,  hard  to  bear.   Father  let 

David  drive  me  down  to  Pardeeville,  a  place  I 

had  never  before  seen,  though  it  was  only  nine 

[  263  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

miles  south  of  the  Hickory  Hill  home.  When 
we  arrived  at  the  village  tavern,  it  seemed 
deserted.  Not  a  single  person  was  in  sight. 
I  set  my  clock  baggage  on  the  rickety  platform. 
David  said  good-bye  and  started  for  home, 
leaving  me  alone  in  the  world.  The  grinding 
noise  made  by  the  wagon  in  turning  short 
brought  out  the  landlord,  and  the  first  thing 
that  caught  his  eye  was  my  strange  bundle. 
Then  he  looked  at  me  and  said,  "Hello, 
young  man,  what's  this?" 

"Machines,"  I  said,  "for  keeping  time  and 
getting  up  in  the  morning,  and  so  forth." 

"Well!  Well!  That's  a  mighty  queer  get-up. 
You  must  be  a  Down-East  Yankee.  Where  did 
you  get  the  pattern  for  such  a  thing?" 

"In  my  head,"  I  said. 

Some  one  down  the  street  happened  to  notice 
the  landlord  looking  intently  at  something  and 
came  up  to  see  what  it  was.  Three  or  four 
people  in  that  little  village  formed  an  attractive 
crowd,  and  in  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  the 
greater  part  of  the  population  of  Pardeeville 
[  264] 


The  World  and  the  University 

stood  gazing  in  a  circle  around  my  strange 
hickory  belongings.  I  kept  outside  of  the  circle 
to  avoid  being  seen,  and  had  the  advantage  of 
hearing  the  remarks  without  being  embar- 
rassed. Almost  every  one  as  he  came  up  would 
say,  "What's  that?  What's  it  for?  Who  made 
it?"  The  landlord  would  answer  them  all  alike, 
"Why,  a  young  man  that  lives  out  in  the  coun- 
try somewhere  made  it,  and  he  says  it's  a  thing 
for  keeping  time,  getting  up  in  the  morning, 
and  something  that  I  did  n't  understand.  I 
don't  know  what  he  meant."  "Oh,  no!"  one  of 
the  crowd  would  say,  "that  can't  be.  It's  for 
something  else  —  something  mysterious.  Mark 
my  words,  you'll  see  all  about  it  in  the  news- 
papers some  of  these  days."  A  curious  little 
fellow  came  running  up  the  street,  joined  the 
crowd,  stood  on  tiptoe  to  get  sight  of  the  won- 
der, quickly  made  up  his  mind,  and  shouted  in 
crisp,  confident,  cock-crowing  style,  "I  know 
what  that  contraption's  for.  It's  a  machine  for 
taking  the  bones  out  of  fish." 
,  This  was  in  the  time  of  the  great  popular 
[  265  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

phrenology  craze,  when  the  fences  and  barns 
along  the  roads  throughout  the  country  were 
plastered  with  big  skull-bump  posters,  headed, 
"Know  Thyself,"  and  advising  everybody  to 
attend  schoolhouse  lectures  to  have  their  heads 
explained  and  be  told  what  they  were  good  for 
and  whom  they  ought  to  marry.  My  mechani- 
cal bundle  seemed  to  bring  a  good  deal  of  this 
phrenology  to  mind,  for  many  of  the  onlookers 
would  say,  "I  wish  I  could  see  that  boy's 
head,  —  he  must  have  a  tremendous  bump 
of  invention."  Others  complimented  me  by 
saying,  "I  wish  I  had  that  fellow's  head. 
I'd  rather  have  it  than  the  best  farm  in  the 
State." 

I  stayed  overnight  at  this  little  tavern,  wait- 
ing for  a  train.  In  the  morning  I  went  to  the 
station,  and  set  my  bundle  on  the  platform. 
Along  came  the  thundering  train,  a  glorious 
sight,  the  first  train  I  had  ever  waited  for. 
When  the  conductor  saw  my  queer  baggage, 
he  cried,  "Hello!  What  have  we  here?" 

"Inventions  for  keeping  time,  early  rising, 
[  266  ] 


The  World  and  the  University 

and  so  forth.  May  I  take  them  into  the  car 
with  me?" 

"You  can  take  them  where  you  like,"  he 
replied,  "but  you  had  better  give  them  to  the 
baggage-master.  If  you  take  them  into  the 
car  they  will  draw  a  crowd  and  might  get 
broken." 

So  I  gave  them  to  the  baggage-master  and 
made  haste  to  ask  the  conductor  whether  I 
might  ride  on  the  engine.  He  good-naturedly 
said:  "Yes,  it's  the  right  place  for  you.  Run 
ahead,  and  tell  the  engineer  what  I  say."  But 
the  engineer  bluntly  refused  to  let  me  on,  say- 
ing: "It  don't  matter  what  the  conductor  told 
you.  /  say  you  can't  ride  on  my  engine." 

By  this  time  the  conductor,  standing  ready 
to  start  his  train,  was  watching  to  see  what 
luck  I  had,  and  when  he  saw  me  returning  came 
ahead  to  meet  me. 

:<The  engineer  won't  let  me  on,"  I  reported. 

"Won't  he  ? "  said  the  kind  conductor.  "Oh ! 
I  guess  he  will.  You  come  down  with  me." 
And  so  he  actually  took  the  time  and  patience 
[  267  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

to  walk  the  length  of  that  long  train  to  get  me 
on  to  the  engine. 

"Charlie,"  said  he,  addressing  the  engineer, 
"don't  you  ever  take  a  passenger?" 

"Very  seldom,"  he  replied. 

"Anyhow,  I  wish  you  would  take  this  young 
man  on.  He  has  the  strangest  machines  in  the 
baggage-car  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  I  believe  he 
could  make  a  locomotive.  He  wants  to  see  the 
engine  running.  Let  him  on."  Then  in  a  low 
whisper  he  told  me  to  jump  on,  which  I  did 
gladly,  the  engineer  offering  neither  encourage- 
ment nor  objection. 

As  soon  as  the  train  was  started,  the  engineer 
asked  what  the  "strange  thing"  the  conductor 
spoke  of  really  was. 

"Only  inventions  for  keeping  time,  getting 
folk  up  in  the  morning,  and  so  forth,"  I  hastily 
replied,  and  before  he  could  ask  any  more 
questions  I  asked  permission  to  go  outside  of 
the  cab  to  see  the  machinery.  This  he  kindly 
granted,  adding,  "Be  careful  not  to  fall  off, 
and  when  you  hear  me  whistling  for  a  station 
[  268  ] 


The  World  and  the  University 

you  come  back,  because  if  it  is  reported  against 
me  to  the  superintendent  that  I  allow  boys  to 
run  all  over  my  engine  I  might  lose  my  job." 

Assuring  him  that  I  would  come  back 
promptly,  I  went  out  and  walked  along  the 
foot-board  on  the  side  of  the  boiler,  watching 
the  magnificent  machine  rushing  through  the 
landscapes  as  if  glorying  in  its  strength  like  a 
living  creature.  While  seated  on  the  cow- 
catcher platform,  I  seemed  to  be  fairly  flying, 
and  the  wonderful  display  of  power  and  motion 
was  enchanting.  This  was  the  first  time  I  had 
ever  been  on  a  train,  much  less  a  locomotive, 
since  I  had  left  Scotland.  When  I  got  to  Madi- 
son, I  thanked  the  kind  conductor  and  engin- 
eer for  my  glorious  ride,  inquired  the  way  to 
the  Fair,  shouldered  my  inventions,  and  walked 
to  the  Fair  Ground. 

When  I  applied  for  an  admission  ticket  at  a 
window  by  the  gate  I  told  the  agent  that  I  had 
something  to  exhibit. 

"What  is  it?"  he  inquired. 

"Well,  here  it  is.  Look  at  it." 
[  269  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

•  When  he  craned  his  neck  through  the  win- 
dow and  got  a  glimpse  of  my  bundle,  he  cried 
excitedly,  "Oh!  you  don't  need  a  ticket, — 
come  right  in." 

When  I  inquired  of  the  agent  where  such 
things  as  mine  should  be  exhibited,  he  said, 
"You  see  that  building  up  on  the  hill  with  a 
big  flag  on  it?  That's  the  Fine  Arts  Hall,  and 
it 's  just  the  place  for  your  wonderful  invention." 

So  I  went  up  to  the  Fine  Arts  Hall  and  looked 
in,  wondering  if  they  would  allow  wooden 
things  in  so  fine  a  place. 

I  was  met  at  the  door  by  a  dignified  gentle- 
man, who  greeted  me  kindly  and  said,  "Young 
man,  what  have  we  got  here?" 

"Two  clocks  and  a  thermometer,"  I  replied. 

"Did  you  make  these?  They  look  wonder- 
fully beautiful  and  novel  and  must,  I  think, 
prove  the  most  interesting  feature  of  the  fair." 

"Where  shall  I  place  them?"  I  inquired. 

"Just  look  around,  young  man,  and  choose 
the  place  you  like  best,  whether  it  is  occupied 
or  not.  You  can  have  your  pick  of  all  the 
[  270  ] 


"The  World  and  the  University 

building,  and  a  carpenter  to  make  the  necessary 
shelving  and  assist  you  everyway  possible!" 

So  I  quickly  had  a  shelf  made  large  enough 
for  all  of  them,  went  out  on  the  hill  and  picked 
up  some  glacial  boulders  of  the  right  size  for 
weights,  and  in  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  the 
clocks  were  running.  They  seemed  to  attract 
more  attention  than  anything  else  in  the  hall. 
I  got  lots  of  praise  from  the  crowd  and  the  news- 
paper-reporters. The  local  press  reports  were 
copied  into  the  Eastern  papers.  It  was  con- 
sidered wonderful  that  a  boy  on  a  farm  had 
been  able  to  invent  and  make  such  things,  and 
almost  every  spectator  foretold  good  fortune. 
But  I  had  been  so  lectured  by  my  father  above 
all  things  to  avoid  praise  that  I  was  afraid  to 
read  those  kind  newspaper  notices,  and  never 
clipped  out  or  preserved  any  of  them,  just 
glanced  at  them  and  turned  away  my  eyes 
from  beholding  vanity.  They  gave  me  a  prize 
of  ten  or  fifteen  dollars  and  a  diploma  for 
wonderful  things  not  down  in  the  list  of 
exhibits. 

[  271  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

Many  years  later,  after  I  had  written  articles 
and  books,  I  received  a  letter  from  the  gentle- 
man who  had  charge  of  the  Fine  Arts  Hall. 
He  proved  to  be  the  Professor  of  English 
Literature  in  the  University  of  Wisconsin  at 
this  Fair  time,  and  long  afterward  he  sent  me 
clippings  of  reports  of  his  lectures.  He  had  a 
lecture  on  me,  discussing  style,  etcetera,  and 
telling  how  well  he  remembered  my  arrival  at 
the  Hall  in  my  shirt-sleeves  with  those  mechan- 
ical wonders  on  my  shoulder,  and  so  forth,  and 
so  forth.  These  inventions,  though  of  little 
importance,  opened  all  doors  for  me  and  made 
marks  that  have  lasted  many  years,  simply, 
I  suppose,  because  they  were  original  and 
promising. 

I  was  looking  around  in  the  mean  time  to 
find  out  where  I  should  go  to  seek  my  fortune. 
An  inventor  at  the  Fair,  by  the  name  of  Wiard, 
was  exhibiting  an  iceboat  he  had  invented  to 
run  on  the  upper  Mississippi  from  Prairie  du 
Chien  to  St.  Paul  during  the  winter  months, 
explaining  how  useful  it  would  be  thus  to  make 
[  272  ] 


The  World  and  the  University 

a  highway  of  the  river  while  it  was  closed  to 
ordinary  navigation  by  ice.  After  he  saw  my 
inventions  he  offered  me  a  place  in  his  foundry 
and  machine-shop  in  Prairie  du  Chien  and 
promised  to  assist  me  all  he  could.  So  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  accept  his  offer  and  rode  with 
him  to  Prairie  du  Chien  in  his  iceboat,  which 
was  mounted  on  a  flat  car.  I  soon  found,  how- 
ever, that  he  was  seldom  at  home  and  that  I 
was  not  likely  to  learn  much  at  his  small  shop. 
I  found  a  place  where  I  could  work  for  my  board 
and  devote  my  spare  hours  to  mechanical 
drawing,  geometry,  and  physics,  making  but 
little  headway,  however,  although  the  Pelton 
family,  for  whom  I  worked,  were  very  kind. 
I  made  up  my  mind  after  a  few  months'  stay 
in  Prairie  du  Chien  to  return  to  Madison,  hop- 
ing that  in  some  way  I  might  be  able  to  gam 
an  education. 

At  Madison  I  raised  a  few  dollars  by  making 

and  selling  a  few  of  those  bedsteads  that  set 

the  sleepers  on  their  feet  in  the  morning, — 

inserting  in  the  footboard  the  works  of  an 

[  273  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

ordinary  clock  that  could  be  bought  for  a 
dollar.  I  also  made  a  few  dollars  addressing 
circulars  in  an  insurance  office,  while  at  the 
same  time  I  was  paying  my  board  by  taking 
care  of  a  pair  of  horses  and  going  errands.  This 
is  of  no  great  interest  except  that  I  was  thus 
winning  my  bread  while  hoping  that  something 
would  turn  up  that  might  enable  me  to  make 
money  enough  to  enter  the  State  University. 
This  was  my  ambition,  and  it  never  wavered 
no  matter  what  I  was  doing.  No  University, 
it  seemed  to  me,  could  be  more  admirably, 
situated,  and  as  I  sauntered  about  it,  charmed 
with  its  fine  lawns  and  trees  and  beautiful  lakes, 
and  saw  the  students  going  and  coming  with 
their  books,  and  occasionally  practising  with  a 
theodolite  in  measuring  distances,  I  thought 
that  if  I  could  only  join  them  it  would  be  the 
greatest  joy  of  life.  I  was  desperately  hungry 
and  thirsty  for  knowledge  and  willing  to  endure 
anything  to  get  it. 

One  day  I  chanced  to  meet  a  student  who 
ha^  noticed  my  inventions  at  the  Fair  and  now 
I  274  1 


The  World  and  the  University 

recognized  me.  And  when  I  said,  "You  are 
fortunate  fellows  to  be  allowed  to  study  in  this 
beautiful  place.  I  wish  I  could  join  you." 
"Well,  why  don't  you?"  he  asked.  "I  have  n't 
money  enough,"  I  said.  "Oh,  as  to  money," 
he  reassuringly  explained,  "very  little  is  re- 
quired. I  presume  you're  able  to  enter  the 
Freshman  class,  and  you  can  board  yourself  as 
quite  a  number  of  us  do  at  a  cost  of  about  a 
dollar  a  week.  The  baker  and  milkman  come 
every  day.  You  can  live  on  bread  and  milk." 
Well,  I  thought,  maybe  I  have  money  enough 
for  at  least  one  beginning  term.  Anyhow  I 
could  n't  help  trying. 

With  fear  and  trembling,  overladen  with 
ignorance,  I  called  on  Professor  Stirling,  the 
Dean  of  the  Faculty,  who  was  then  Acting 
President,  presented  my  case,  and  told  him 
how  far  I  had  got  on  with  my  studies  at  home, 
and  that  I  had  n't  been  to  school  since  leaving 
Scotland  at  the  age  of  eleven  years,  except- 
ing one  short  term  of  a  couple  of  months  at  a 
district  school,  because  I  could  not  be  spared 
[  275  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

from  the  farm  work.  After  hearing  my  story, 
the  kind  professor  welcomed  me  to  the  glori- 
ous University  —  next,  it  seemed  to  me,  to  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven.  After  a  few  weeks  in  the 
preparatory  department  I  entered  the  Fresh- 
man class.  In  Latin  I  found  that  one  of  the 
books  in  use  I  had  already  studied  in  Scotland. 
So,  after  an  interruption  of  a  dozen  years,  I 
began  my  Latin  over  again  where  I  had  left 
off;  and,  strange  to  say,  most  of  it  came  back  to 
me,  especially  the  grammar  which  I  had  com- 
mitted to  memory  at  the  Dunbar  Grammar 
School. 

During  the  four  years  that  I  was  in  the 
University,  I  earned  enough  in  the  harvest- 
fields  during  the  long  summer  vacations  to 
carry  me  through  the  balance  of  each  year, 
working  very  hard,  cutting  with  a  cradle  four 
acres  of  wheat  a  day,  and  helping  to  put  it  in 
the  shock.  But,  having  to  buy  books  and  pay- 
ing, I  think,  thirty-two  dollars  a  year  for  in- 
struction, and  occasionally  buying  acids  and 
retorts,  glass  tubing,  bell-glasses,  flasks,  etc., 
[  276  ] 


T*he  World  and  the  University 

I  had  to  cut  down  expenses  for  board  now  and 
then  to  half  a  dollar  a  week. 

One  winter  I  taught  school  ten  miles  north 
of  Madison,  earning  much-needed  money  at 
the  rate  of  twenty  dollars  a  month,  "boarding 
round,"  and  keeping  up  my  University  work 
by  studying  at  night.  As  I  was  not  then  well 
enough  off  to  own  a  watch,  I  used  one  of  my 
hickory  clocks,  not  only  for  keeping  time,  but 
for  starting  the  school  fire  in  the  cold  mornings, 
and  regulating  class-times.  I  carried  it  out  on 
my  shoulder  to  the  old  log  schoolhouse,  and 
set  it  to  work  on  a  little  shelf  nailed  to  one  of 
the  knotty,  bulging  logs.  The  winter  was  very 
cold,  and  I  had  to  go  to  the  schoolhouse  and 
start  the  fire  about  eight  o'clock  to  warm  it 
before  the  arrival  of  the  scholars.  This  was  a 
rather  trying  job,  and  one  that  my  clock  might 
easily  be  made  to  do.  Therefore,  after  supper 
one  evening  I  told  the  head  of  the  family  with 
whom  I  was  boarding  that  if  he  would  give  me 
a  candle  I  would  go  back  to  the  schoolhouse 
and  make  arrangements  for  lighting  the  fire  at 
[  277  1 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

eight  o'clock,  without  my  having  to  be  present 
until  time  to  open  the  school  at  nine.  He  said, 
"Oh!  young  man,  you  have  some  curious 
things  in  the  school-room,  but  I  don't  think  you 
can  do  that."  I  sa^d,  "Oh,  yes!  It's  easy," 
and  in  hardly  more  than  an  hour  the  simple  job 
was  completed.  I  had  only  to  place  a  teaspoon- 
ful  of  powdered  chlorate  of  potash  and  sugar 
on  the  stove-hearth  near  a  few  shavings  and 
kindling,  and  at  the  required  time  make  the 
clock,  through  a  simple  arrangement,  touch 
the  inflammable  mixture  with  a  drop  of  sul- 
phuric acid.  Every  evening  after  school  was 
dismissed,  I  shoveled  out  what  was  left  of  the 
fire  into  the  snow,  put  in  a  little  kindling,  filled 
up  the  big  box  stove  with  heavy  oak  wood, 
placed  the  lighting  arrangement  on  the  hearth, 
and  set  the  clock  to  drop  the  acid  at  the  hour  of 
eight ;  all  this  requiring  only  a  few  minutes. 

The  first  morning  after  I  had  made  this  sim- 
ple arrangement  I  invited  the  doubting  farmer 
to  watch  the  old  squat  schoolhouse  from  a 
window  that  overlooked  it,  to  see  if  a  good 
[  278  ] 


T*he  World  and  the  University 

smoke  did  not  rise  from  the  stovepipe.  Sure 
enough,  on  the  minute,  he  saw  a  tall  column 
curling  gracefully  up  through  the  frosty  air, 
but  instead  of  congratulating  me  on  my  success 
he  solemnly  shook  his  head  and  said  in  a  hollow, 
lugubrious  voice,  "Young  man,  you  will  be 
setting  fire  to  the  schoolhouse."  All  winter 
long  that  faithful  clock  fire  never  failed,  and 
by  the  time  I  got  to  the  schoolhouse  the  stove 
was  usually  red-hot. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  long  summer  vaca- 
tions I  returned  to  the  Hickory  Hill  farm  to 

0 

earn  the  means  in  the  harvest-fields  to  continue 
my  University  course,  walking  all  the  way  to 
save  railroad  fares.  And  although  I  cradled 
four  acres  of  wheat  a  day,  I  made  the  long, 
hard,  sweaty  day's  work  still  longer  and  harder 
by  keeping  up  my  study  of  plants.  At  the 
noon  hour  I  collected  a  large  handful,  put  them 
in  water  to  keep  them  fresh,  and  after  supper 
got  to  work  on  them  and  sat  up  till  after  mid- 
night, analyzing  and  classifying,  thus  leaving 
only  four  hours  for  sleep ;  and  by  the  end  of  the 
[  279  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

first  year,  after  taking  up  botany,  I  knew  the 
principal  flowering  plants  of  the  region. 

I  received  my  first  lesson  in  botany  from  a 
student  by  the  name  of  Griswold,  who  is  now 
County  Judge  of  the  County  of  Waukesha, 
Wisconsin.  In  the  University  he  was  often 
laughed  at  on  account  of  his  anxiety  to  instruct 
others,  and  his  frequently  saying  with  fine 
emphasis,  "Imparting  instruction  is  my  great- 
est enjoyment."  One  memorable  day  in  June, 
when  I  was  standing  on  the  stone  steps  of  the 
north  dormitory,  Mr.  Griswold  joined  me  and 
at  once  began  to  teach.  He  reached  up,  plucked 
a  flower  from  an  overspreading  branch  of  a 
locust  tree,  and,  handing  it  to  me,  said, "  Muir, 
do  you  know  what  family  this  tree  belongs  to  ?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  don't  know  anything  about 
botany." 

"Well,  no  matter,"  said  he,  "what  is  it  like?" 
f  "It's  like  a  pea  flower,"  I  replied. 

"That's  right.  You're  right,"  he  said,  "it 
belongs  to  the  Pea  Family." 

"But  how  can  that  be,"  I  objected,  "when 
*  '  [  280  ] 


"The  World  and  the  University 

the  pea  is  a  weak,  clinging,  straggling  herb, 
and  the  locust  a  big,  thorny  hardwood  tree?" 
"Yes,  that  is  true,"  he  replied,  "as  to  the 
difference  in  size,  but  it  is  also  true  that  in  all 
their  essential  characters  they  are  alike,  and 
therefore  they  must  belong  to  one  and  the  same 
family.  Just  look  at  the  peculiar  form  of  the 
locust  flower;  you  see  that  the  upper  petal, 
called  the  banner,  is  broad  and  erect,  and  so  is 
the  upper  petal  of  the  pea  flower;  the  two  lower 
petals,  called  the  wings,  are  outspread  and  wing- 
shaped;  so  are  those  of  the  pea;  and  the  two 
petals  below  the  wings  are  united  on  their 
edges,  curve  upward,  and  form  what  is  called 
the  keel,  and  so  you  see  are  the  corresponding 
petals  of  the  pea  flower.  And  now  look  at  the 
stamens  and  pistils.  You  see  that  nine  of  the 
ten  stamens  have  their  filaments  united  into  a 
sheath  around  the  pistil,  but  the  tenth  stamen 
has  its  filament  free.  These  are  very  marked 
characters,  are  they  not  ?  And,  strange  to  say, 
you  will  find  them  the  same  in  the  tree  and  in 
the  vine.  Now  look  at  the  ovules  or  seeds  of 
\  281  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

the  locust,  and  you  will  see  that  they  are 
arranged  in  a  pod  or  legume  like  those  of  the 
pea.  And  look  at  the  leaves.  You  see  the  leaf 
of  the  locust  is  made  up  of  several  leaflets,  and 
so  also  is  the  leaf  of  the  pea.  Now  taste  the 
locust  leaf." 

I  did  so  and  found  that  it  tasted  like  the  leaf 
of  the  pea.  Nature  has  used  the  same  season- 
ing for  both,  though  one  is  a  straggling  vine, 
the  other  a  big  tree. 

"Now,  surely  you  cannot  imagine  that  all 
these  similar  characters  are  mere  coincidences. 
Do  they  not  rather  go  to  show  that  the  Creator 
in  making  the  pea  vine  and  locust  tree  had  the 
same  idea  in  mind,  and  that  plants  are  not 
classified  arbitrarily?  Man  has  nothing  to  do 
with  their  classification.  Nature  has  attended 
to  all  that,  giving  essential  unity  with  boundless 
variety,  so  that  the  botanist  has  only  to  ex- 
amine plants  to  learn  the  harmony  of  their 
relations." 

This  fine  lesson  charmed  me  and  sent  me 
flying  to  the  woods  and  meadows  in  wild 
[  282  1 


The  World  and  the  University 

enthusiasm.  Like  everybody  else  I  was  always 
fond  of  flowers,  attracted  by  their  external 
beauty  and  purity.  Now  my  eyes  were  opened 
to  their  inner  beauty,  all  alike  revealing  glori- 
ous traces  of  the  thoughts  of  God,  and  leading 
on  and  on  into  the  infinite  cosmos.  I  wandered 
away  at  every  opportunity,  making  long  excur- 
sions round  the  lakes,  gathering  specimens  and 
keeping  them  fresh  in  a  bucket  in  my  room  to 
study  at  night  after  my  regular  class  tasks 
were  learned ;  for  my  eyes  never  closed  on  the 
plant  glory  I  had  seen. 

Nevertheless,  I  still  indulged  my  love  of 
mechanical  inventions.  I  invented  a  desk  in 
which  the  books  I  had  to  study  were  arranged 
in  order  at  the  beginning  of  each  term.  I  also 
made  a  bed  which  set  me  on  my  feet  every 
morning  at  the  hour  determined  on,  and  in 
dark  winter  mornings  just  as  the  bed  set  me 
on  the  floor  it  lighted  a  lamp.  Then,  after  the 
minutes  allowed  for  dressing  had  elapsed,  a 
click  was  heard  and  the  first  book  to  be  studied 
was  pushed  up  from  a  rack  below  the  top  of 
[  283  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

the  desk,  thrown  open,  and  allowed  to  remain 
there  the  number  of  minutes  required.  Then 
the  machinery  closed  the  book  and  allowed  it 
to  drop  back  into  its  stall,  then  moved  the  rack 
forward  and  threw  up  the  next  in  order,  and 
so  on,  all  the  day  being  divided  according  to 
the  times  of  recitation,  and  time  required  and 
allotted  to  each  study.  Besides  this,  I  thought 
it  would  be  a  fine  thing  in  the  summer-time 
when  the  sun  rose  early,  to  dispense  with  the 
clock-controlled  bed  machinery,  and  make  use 
of  sunbeams  instead.  This  I  did  simply  by 
taking  a  lens  out  of  my  small  spy-glass,  fixing 
it  on  a  frame  on  the  sill  of  my  bedroom  window, 
and  pointing  it  to  the  sunrise;  the  sunbeams 
focused  on  a  thread  burned  it  through,  allow- 
ing the  bed  machinery  to  put  me  on  my  feet. 
When  I  wished  to  arise  at  any  given  time  after 
sunrise,  I  had  only  to  turn  the  pivoted  frame 
that  held  the  lens  the  requisite  number  of 
degrees  or  minutes.  Thus  I  took  Emerson's 
advice  and  hitched  my  dumping-wagon  bed 
to  a  star. 

[  284  ] 


MY    DESK 

Made  and  used  at  the  Wisconsin 
State  University 


The  World  and  the  University 

I  also  invented  a  machine  to  make  visible 
the  growth  of  plants  and  the  action  of  the  sun- 
light, a  very  delicate  contrivance,  enclosed 
in  glass.  Besides  this  I  invented  a  barometer 
and  a  lot  of  novel  scientific  apparatus.  My 
room  was  regarded  as  a  sort  of  show  place  by 
the  professors,  who  oftentimes  brought  visitors 
to  it  on  Saturdays  and  holidays.  And  when, 
some  eighteen  years  after  I  had  left  the  Uni- 
versity, I  was  sauntering  over  the  campus  in 
time  of  vacation,  and  spoke  to  a  man  who 
seemed  to  be  taking  some  charge  of  the  grounds, 
he  informed  me  that  he  was  the  janitor;  and 
when  I  inquired  what  had  become  of  Pat,  the 
janitor  in  my  time,  and  a  favorite  with  the 
students,  he  replied  that  Pat  was  still  alive  and 
well,  but  now  too  old  to  do  much  work.  And 
when  I  pointed  to  the  dormitory  room  that  I 
long  ago  occupied,,  he  said:  "Oh!  then  I  know 
who  you  are,"  and  mentioned  my  name.  "How 
comes  it  that  you  know  my  name?"  I  inquired. 
He  explained  that  "Pat  always  pointed  out 
that  room  to  newcomers  and  told  long  stories 
[  285  ] 


My  Boyhood  and  Youth 

about  the  wonders  that  used  to  be  in  it."  So 
long  had  the  memory  of  my  little  inventions 
survived. 

Although  I  was  four  years  at  the  University, 
I  did  not  take  the  regular  course  of  studies, 
but  instead  picked  out  what  I  thought  would 
be  most  useful  to  me,  particularly  chemistry, 
which  opened  a  new  world,  and  mathematics 
and  physics,  a  little  Greek  and  Latin,  botany 
and  geology.  I  was  far  from  satisfied  with  what 
I  had  learned,  and  should  have  stayed  longer. 
Anyhow  I  wandered  away  on  a  glorious  botan- 
ical and  geological  excursion,  which  has  lasted 
nearly  fifty  years  and  is  not  yet  completed, 
always  happy  and  free,  poor  and  rich,  without 
thought  of  a  diploma  or  of  making  a  name, 
urged  on  and  on  through  endless,  inspiring, 
Godful  beauty. 

From  the  top  of  a  hill  on  the  north  side  of 
Lake  Mendota  I  gained  a  last  wistful,  lingering 
view  of  the  beautiful  University  grounds  and 
buildings  where  I  had  spent  so  many  hungry 
and  happy  and  hopeful  days.  There  with 
r  286  1 


"The  World  and  the  University 

streaming  eyes  I  bade  my  blessed  Alma  Mater 
farewell.  But  I  was  only  leaving  one  Univers- 
ity for  another,  the  Wisconsin  University  for 
the  University  of  the  Wilderness. 


THE    END 


Index 


America,  early  interest  in, 
51-53;  emigration  to,  53- 

59- 

Anderson,  Mr.,  216,  217. 

Anemone  patens  var.  Nuttal- 
liana,  119-121. 

Animals,  man's  tyranny  over, 

/  83,  84,  109,  no,  181;  acci- 
dents to,  133-136;  the  tam- 
ing of,  185,  1 86;  cleanli- 
ness, 187,  1 88;  endurance 
of  cold,  189,  190. 

Apples,  wild,  124. 

Audubon,  John  James,  on  the 
passenger  pigeon,  52,  53, 
,  162-166. 

Aurora  borealis,  205,  206. 

Badgers,  183. 

Bathing,  16,  17;  of  animals, 
187,  i88;of  man,  188,  189. 
See  also  Swimming. 

Bear,  black,  171,  183,  184. 

Bees,  234-239. 

Beetle,  whirligig,  114. 

Berries,  122,  123. 

Bible,  the,  242-244. 

Birds,  removing  their  eggs, 
64,  65;  met  with  in  Wiscon- 
sin, 64-75,  137-167;  acci- 

.  dents  to,  131-135;  bathing, 
187,  188. 


Birds'-nesting,  27,  28,  44-48. 
Blackbird,   red-winged,    142, 

143;  hunting,  175. 
Blacksmith,  the  minister,  108; 

his  cruelty  to  his  brother, 

214-217. 

Bluebird,  nest,  62,  139;  a  fa- 
vorite, 138,  139. 
Boat,  115. 

Boatmen  (insects),  115. 
Bobolink,  140,  141. 
Bob-white,  or  quail,  accidents 

to,    133-135;   habits,    151, 

152. 

Books,  241-245. 
Botany,  first  lessons  in,  280- 

283. 

Boys,  savagery  of,  23—26. 
Brush  fires,  76,  77. 
Bull-bat,  or  nighthawk,  69- 

71- 

Bullfrogs,  74. 
Butterfly-weed,  122. 

Cats,  a  boy's  cruel  prank,  23- 
26;  a  cat  with  kittens,  77, 
78;  old  Tom  and  the  loon, 

I55-I58- 
Charlie,     the    feeble-minded 

man,  214-217. 
Chickadee,  143,  144. 
Chickens,  prairie,  145,  146. 


289 


Index 


Chipmunk,  193,  194. 
Choke-damp,  232,  233. 
Chores,  202-204. 
Christian    Philosopher,    The, 

by  Thomas  Dick,  242. 
Clocks,  252-258. 
Clover,  199,  200. 
Combe's  Physiology,  188. 
Consumption,  212,  213. 
Coons,  170,  184,  185. 
Copperhead,  no,  in. 
Corn,  husking,  105,  106. 
Cows,  sympathy  with,  94. 
Crane,  sandhill,  68,  97. 
Crops,  Wisconsin,  199,  200. 
Cypripedium,  121,  122. 

Dandy  Doctor   terror,   the, 

6-9. 

Davel  Brae,  28-30. 
Deer,  169-174. 
Desk,  a  student's,  283,  284. 
Dick,  Thomas,  his  Christian 

Philosopher,  242. 
Dog,    Watch,    the   mongrel, 

77-83. 

Duck,  wood,  147,  148. 
Ducks,  wild,  147,  148. 
Dunbar,  Scotland,  a  boyhood 

in,  1-55;  later  visit  to,  37, 

38. 

Dunbar  Castle,  17. 
Duncan,  William,  233. 

Eagle,  bald,  and  fish  hawk, 

Si,  52-. 

Early-rising    machine,    252- 
256,  284. 


Ferns,  122. 

Fiddler,  story  of  a  Scotch, 
130,  131. 

Fighting,  boys',  28-30, 33-37. 

Fireflies,  71,  72. 

Fires,  brush,  76,  77;  house- 
hold, 204;  grass,  230;  light- 
ing the  schoolhouse  fire, 
277-279. 

Fishes,  115-117. 

Fishing,  116,  117. 

Flicker,  66. 

Flowers,  at  Dunbar,  12-14; 
wild,  in  Wisconsin,  118-122. 

Food  question,  the,  241-244. 

Fountain  Lake,  62,  115-118, 
124-129. 

Fountain  Lake  Meadow,  62, 

71- 

Fox  River,  123,  141,  147. 
Foxes,  182,  183. 
Frogs,  love-songs  of,  74. 
Fuller,  129. 

Ghosts,  1 8,  19. 

Gilrye,  Grandfather,  2-4,  43, 

54,  55- 

Glow-worms,  72. 
Goose,  Canada,  149-151. 
Gophers,  194-198. 
Grandfather.      See     Gilrye, 

Grandfather. 
Gray,  Alexander,  60,  61. 
Green  Lake,  103,  104. 
Griswold,  Judge,  280-282. 
Grouse,  ruffed,  or  partridge, 

drumming,  72. 
Grubs,  229. 


290  ] 


Index 


Half-witted  man,  214-217. 

Hare,  Dr.,  7. 

Hares,  181,  182. 

Hawk,  fish,  and  bald  eagle, 

Si,  52. 

Hawks,  66,  177. 
Hell,  warnings  as  to,  76,  77. 
Hen-hawk,  66. 
Hickory,  123. 
Hickory  Hill,  purchase  and 

development  of  the  farm, 

226-234;  Me  at,  234-263; 

vacation  work  at,  279. 
Holabird,  Mr.,  148. 
Holidays,  174. 
Honey-bees,  234-239. 
Horses,  the  pony  Jack,  95- 

102;  Nob  and  Nell,   103- 

105,  107-109. 
Hunt,  the  side,  168,  169. 
Hunting  expeditions,  171. 
Hyla,  75- 

Ice,  whooping  of,  207,  208. 
Ice-storm,  206,  207. 
"InchcapeBell,  The,"  5,  6. 
Indian   moccasins    (flowers), 

121,  122. 

Indians,  hunting  muskrats, 
81,  82;  killing  pigs,  88,  89; 
stealing  a  horse,  103-105; 
getting  ducks  and  wild  rice, 
147;  hunting  coons  and 
deer,  170;  fond  of  muskrat 
flesh,  1 80;  rights  of,  218- 
220. 

Industry,  excessive,  222-226. 


Insects,  113-115. 


Inventions,  on  the  farm,  248- 
261;  introduced  to  the 
world,  260-272;  the  clock 
fire,  277-279;  at  the  Uni- 
versity, 283-286. 

Jack,  the  pony,  95-102. 
Jay,  blue,  nest,  62-65. 

Kettle-holes,  98. 
Kingbird,  66,  67. 
Kingston,  Wis.,  59-61. 

Lady's-slippers,  1 21,  122. 

Lake  Mendota,  129. 

Landlord,  a  friendly,  264, 
265. 

Lark.   See  Skylark. 

Lauderdale,  Lord,  his  gar- 
dens, 2. 

Lawson,  Peter,  13,  14. 

Lawson  boys,  126,  127,  175. 

Lightning-bugs,  71,  72. 

Lilium  superbum,  122. 

Linnet,  red-headed,  187,  1 88. 

"Llewellyn's  Dog,"  4,  5. 

Locomotive,  riding  on  a,  267- 
269. 

Loon, 153-158. 

Lyon,  Mr.,  teacher,  30,  37. 

Maccoulough's  Course  of  Read- 
ing, 51. 

McRath,  Mr.,  184,  185. 

Madison,  Wis.,  State  Fair  at, 
260,  261,  269-272;  life  in, 
273-287- 


Mair,  George,  218,  219. 
291    ] 


Index 


Mallard,  147. 

Marmot,  mountain,  186. 

Meadowlark,  143. 

Meals,  42,  43;  the  Scotch 
religious  view  of,  249,  250. 

Melons,  200. 

Minister,  the  blacksmith,  108; 
his  cruelty  to  his  brother, 
214-217. 

Moccasins,  Indian,  121,  122. 

Mosquitoes,  113,  114. 

Mouse,  European  field,  with 
young,  3. 

Mouse,  meadow,  or  field,  106, 
107;  eaten  by  a  horse,  107. 

Muir,  Anna,  56. 

Muir,  Anne  (Gilrye)  (mo- 
ther), ii,  15,  1 6,  20,  22, 

23,  28,  49,  256,   259,  260, 
263. 

Muir,  Daniel  (brother),  56, 

115,  146,  223. 
Muir,  Daniel  (father),  10,  II, 

24,  3i,  43,  44,  49,  53-56, 
58-61,  83,  90,  94-96,  loo- 
102,115,148,191,195,203, 
205,218,222,  224,  226, 231- 
234;  admonitions,  76,  77; 
Scotch   correction,   84-87; 
as  a  church-goer,  107,  108; 
his  advice  as  to  swimming, 
124;  his  ideas  about  books 
and    the    Bible,    241-244; 
rules  as  to  going  to  bed  and 
getting   up,    245-251;   his 
religious    view    of    meals, 
249,  250;  and  his  son's  in- 
ventions, 253-258;  his  part- 


ing advice  to  his  son,  262; 
theories  on  bringing  up 
children,  263. 

Muir,  David,  II,  20-22,  43, 
53,54,56,62,78,85-87,97, 
110,115,125,126,223,231, 
263,  264;  kills  a  deer,  172- 
174. 

Muir,  John,  fondness  for  the 
wild,  I,  49,  50;  earliest  re- 
collections, 1-3 ;  first  school, 
3-10,  28-30;  favorite  sto- 
ries in  reading-book,  4-6; 
favorite  hymns  and  songs, 
9,  10;  early  fondness  for 
flowers,  12-14;  an  early 
accident,  15,  16;  bathing, 
1 6,  17;  boyish  sports,  17- 
26,  40,  41 ;  grammar  school, 
30-39;  birds'-nesting,  44- 
48;  early  interest  in  Amer- 
ica, 51-53;  emigration  to 
America,  53-59;  settling  in 
Wisconsin,  58-62;  life  on 
the  Fountain  Lake  farm, 
62-226;  escaping  a  whip- 
ping, 84-87;  learning  to 
ride,  95-100;  learning  to 
swim,  124-129;  ambition 
in  mowing  and  cradling, 
202,  223 ;  put  to  the  plough, 
220,  221;  hard  work,  221- 
224;  running  the  breaking 
plough,  227-229;  life  at 
Hickory  Hill,  230-263 ; 
adventure  in  digging  a  well, 
231-234;  educating  him- 
self, 240-247;  early  rising 


292 


Index 


proves  a  way  out  of  diffi- 
culties, 245-251;  inven- 
tions, 248-261 ;  deciding  on 
an  occupation,  259-261 ; 
determines  to  take  his  in- 
ventions to  the  State  Fair, 
260-262;  starting  out  into 
the  world,  262-269;  at  the 
State  Fair,  269-272;  enters 
a  machine-shop  at  Prairie 
du  Chien,  272,  273;  odd 
jobs  at  Madison,  273,  274; 
enters  the  University,  274- 
276;  life  at  the  University, 
276-287;  teaching  school, 
277-279;  vacation  work  at 
Hickory  Hill,  279;  first  les- 
sons in  botany,  280-283; 
more  inventions,  283-286; 
enters  the  University  of  the 
Wilderness,  286,  287. 

Muir,  Margaret,  56,  253. 

Muir,  Mary,  56. 

Muir,  Sarah,  15,  56,  127. 

Muir's  Lake.  See  Fountain 
Lake. 

Muskrats,  an  Indian  hunting, 
81,  82;  habits,  177-181. 

Nighthawk,  69-71. 

Nob   and   Nell,   the   horses, 

103-105,  107-109. 
Nuthatches,  144,  145. 
Nuts,  123,  124. 

Oriole,  Baltimore,  143. 

Owls,  145. 

Oxen,  humanity  in,  90-94. 


Pardeeville,  Wis.,  263-266. 

Partridge,  or  ruffed  grouse, 
drumming,  72. 

Pasque-flower,  119-121. 

Phrenology,  266. 

Pickerel,  116,  117. 

Pigeon,  passenger,  Audubon's 
account,  52,  53,  162-166; 
extermination,  83;  in  Wis- 
consin, 158-162;  Poka- 
gon's  account,  166,  167. 

Ploughing,  201,  202,  220,  221; 
the  breaking  plough,  227- 
229. 

Plutarch's  Lives,  241,  242. 

Pokagon,  his  account  of  the 
passenger  pigeon,  166,  167. 

Portage,  Wis.,  93,  94,  108. 

Prairie  chickens,  145,  146. 

Prairie  du  Chien,  272,  273. 

Pucaway  Lake,  147. 

Quail.  See  Bob-white. 

Rabbits,  181,  189. 
Raccoon,  170,  184,  185. 
Rails,  splitting,  221,  222. 
Rattlesnakes,  no. 
Reid,  Mr.,  213,  214. 
Ridgway,  Robert,  64. 
Road-making,  209. 
Robin,  American,  139. 
Robin,  European,  27,  28. 

Scootchers,  20-22. 
Scotch,    the,    their    ideas   of 
self-punishment,  130,  131. 
Scotch,  the  language,  57. 


[  293  1 


Index 


Scottish  Grays,  27.    . 

Self-punishment,  130,  131. 

Settlers  in  Wisconsin,  211- 
220,  222-226. 

Shrike,  a  burglarious,  195- 
198. 

Siddons,  Mungo,  8,  9,  12,  30. 

Skaters  (insects),  115. 

Skylark,  46-48. 

Snake,  blow,  in. 

Snakes,  110-112. 

Snipe,  a  case  of  difficult  par- 
turition, 134. 

Snipe,  jack,  73. 

Snowstorms,  206. 

Southey,  Robert,  his  "Inch- 
cape  Bell,"  5,  6. 

Sow,  the  old,  88,  89. 

Sparrow,  song,  143. 

Spermophile,  or  ground  squir- 
rel, a  frozen,  135,  136. 

Spirit-rappings,  210,  211. 

Squirrel,  flying,  192. 

Squirrel,  gray,  190-192. 

Squirrel,  ground.  See  Goph- 
ers and  Spermophile. 

State  Fair,  260,  261,  269-272. 

Stirling,  Professor,  275,  276. 

Strawberries,  wild,  122. 

Sunfish,  116. 

Swamps,  208,  209. 

Swans,  wild,  149. 

Swimming,  124-129. 


Tanager,  scarlet,  143. 
Thermometer,  a  large,  258, 

259- 

Thrasher,  brown,  139,  140. 
Thrush,  brown.  See  Thrasher. 
Thunder-storms,  75,  76. 
Trap,  the  steel,  180. 
Tuberculosis,  212,  213. 
Turk's-turban,  122. 
Turtle,  snapping,  80. 

Vaccination,  n. 

Water-boatmen,  115. 
Water-bugs,  114. 
Water-lily,  118,  119. 
Well,  digging  a,  231-234. 
Whippings,  84-87. 
Whip-poor-will,  68,  69. 
Wiard,     an    inventor,    272, 

273- 

Wilson,   Alexander,   account 
of  fish  hawk  and  bald  eagle, 

Si.  52- 

Wind-flower,  119-121. 
Wisconsin,  settling  in,  58-62; 

life  in,  62-287. 
Woodpecker,  red-headed,  66; 

drowning,    131-133;    shot 

and  resurrected,  175,  176. 
Woodpeckers,  nest-holes  and 

young,  65,  66. 
Wrecks,  38,  39. 


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